even that of dining with your pageship, saying, two boys like us were better and merrier together, than in the great hall with the arrogant serving-men." Richard felt no great appetite; but taking the tone from his friend, he thanked him, and they fell to on the viands. "Now, kind Thomas," said Clifford, "of your bounty bring us a stoup of wine; the day is rainy, and we cannot abroad; so ray gossip and I will tell long stories over our bottle, and lay some plan of merry mischief which you and your fellows may in good time rue."
The domestic obeyed; nor till the wine was brought, the servant fairly dismissed, and the door closed, did Clifford put aside the character he had assumed of a stripling page, in a noble master's abode, entertaining a stranger visitant of his own years. At length, when they were quite alone, the merry boy put his hands to his sides and indulged in so gay a peal of laughter, that the prince, who at first stared in wonder, at last caught the infection, and laughed too, while tears from superabundant glee streamed down their cheeks. Once, twice, and thrice did Richard check himself, and turn seriously to inquire the cause of this merriment; and Clifford strove to answer; but laughter bubbling up choked his voice, and both again yielded in accord to the overpowering fit. At last gasping, holding their sides, and by degrees commanding their muscles, the duke said, "I would ask you, friend Robin, what this means? But at the word, lo you! your very voice is lost. Now, prithee, feel half as weary as I do of this folly, and you will be as grave as tumbledown Dick. Do you remember the simpering fellow we made good sport of in the Tower?"
"You have broken the spell, my lord," said Clifford; "that word suffices to make me as grave as Brakenbury himself, when he looked on your brother's corpse. Ah dear, your highness, the name of the Tower is worse than a raven's croak! God and St. Thomas preserve you from ever getting the other side of its moat!"
"Amen, Robin, with all my heart," said Richard; "a shudder runs through my limbs down to my finger tips, making the skin on my head creep, when I think there is any chance of my passing long years in those dreary cells, with their narrow deep windows; the court-yards, which the sun seldom visits; the massy dark walls, whose black stones seemed to frown angrily if our childs' voices were ever heard in sport."
"There your cousin, my lord of "Warwick, pines out his melancholy days," replied Clifford; "and that is your destined abode. My grandfather was slain by Queen Margaret's side, and stained the Red Rose with a blood-red dye, falling in its
