her boys. She said she had sent them out of the country, but as she had heard nothing of them since, she did not know whether they were alive or dead, and so the retreat of the high-born shepherd boy remained unknown. But all the castles and broad lands that were his by right of inheritance were given to the enemies of his family. The Barony of Westmoreland, with Brougham Castle, was bestowed by Edward on his brother Richard Duke of York, afterwards Richard the Third; and the great manor of Shipton was conferred on Sir William Stanley, who, at a later period, went over to the Lancasterian party himself, and you may read in Shakespeare’s play of “Richard the Third,” that it was he who, after the battle of Bosworth, where Richard was killed, picked up the crown and placed it on the victor’s head, saying, “Long live Henry the Seventh!” We shall presently see what this event had to do with our hero, Henry de Clifford.

II.

Londesborough was a beautiful place in the county of York, about sixteen miles from York city. Lord de Vesci had other and larger estates, but as his dignity of baron was limited to male heirs, his daughter could only inherit two of his possessions, and Londesborough was one of them, consequently young Henry de Clifford was its next heir in right of his mother. He knew this, yet so well had his mind been trained by that excellent parent, that he was content to live in a shepherd’s cot outside its gates with Robin and Maud, whom he soon became accustomed to call father and mother. As they had come from Skipton, and brought with them two little children of their own, the people of the hamlet where they were now settled, did not know but that Henry was their eldest son, and the little ones were so young that they were easily taught to believe he was their brother. He wore a shepherd’s frock of grey serge, fastened round the waist by a leather belt, with half-boots made of untanned deer-skin; and every morning he went out with his foster-father to mind the flocks, taking with him, in a little wallet slung over his shoulder, his mid-day meal, which he would eat as he sat on some grassy mound, or by the side of a rivulet, from which he could fill his horn cup with water. How different was this from the costly banquet in his father’s hall, where he had servants to attend upon him, and drank out of a goblet of gold or silver. Yet he did not repine, but performed his duties with a willing spirit, and instead of thinking his lot was a hard one, he often reflected how much worse it would have been if he had fallen into the hands of his father’s foes; still he could not help feeling melancholy at times, for he longed to see his dear mother again, and 

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