“My dear friends,—­for so I think I may now count you, sir, as well as my Mistress Judith here,—­the waggon is coming down the hill, by which I had intended to go to London this morning upon some pressing business.  And so, Madam, if your cousin will take my horse and conduct you back to the Court, I will profit by this occasion and bid you farewell for the present.”

This proposal was received with evident satisfaction on their part, for there was clearly no further thought of parting; only Moll, alarmed for the proprieties, did beg her lover to lift her on her horse instantly.  Nevertheless, when she was in her saddle, they must linger yet, he to kiss her hands, and she to bend down and yield her cheek to his lips, though the sound of the coming waggon was close at hand.

Scarcely less delighted than they with this surprising strange turn of events, I left ’em there with bright, smiling faces, and journeyed on to London, and there taking a pair of oars at the Bridge to Greenwich, all eagerness to give these joyful tidings to my old friend, Jack Dawson.  I found him in his workroom, before a lathe, and sprinkled from head to toe with chips, mighty proud of a bed-post he was a-turning.  And it did my heart good to see him looking stout and hearty, profitably occupied in this business, instead of soaking in an alehouse (as I feared at one time he would) to dull his care; but he was ever a stout, brave fellow, who would rather fight than give in any day.  A better man never lived, nor a more honest—­circumstances permitting.

His joy at seeing me was past everything; but his first thought after our hearty greeting was of his daughter.

“My Moll,” says he, “my dear girl; you han’t brought her to add to my joy?  She’s not slinking behind a door to fright me with delight, hey?”

“No,” says I; “but I’ve brought you great news of her.”

“And good, I’ll swear, Kit, for there’s not a sad line in your face.  Stay, comrade, wait till I’ve shook these chips off and we are seated in my parlour, for I do love to have a pipe of tobacco and a mug of ale beside me in times of pleasure.  You can talk of indifferent things, though, for Lord!  I do love to hear the sound of your voice again.”

I told him how the ceiling of our dining-hall had been painted.

“Aye,” says he.  “I have heard of that; for my dear girl hath writ about that and nought else in her letters; and though I’ve no great fancy for such matters, yet I doubt not it is mighty fine by her long-winded praises of it.  Come, Kit, let us in here and get to something fresher.”

So we into his parlour, which was a neat, cheerful room, with a fine view of the river, and there being duly furnished with a mighty mug of ale and clean pipes, he bids me give him my news, and I tell him how Moll had fallen over head and ears in love with the painter, and he with her, and how that very morning they had come together and laid open their hearts’ desire one to the other, with the result (as I believed) that they would be married as soon as they could get a parson to do their business.