Widow.  Do you live with Miss Howe?

Fellow.  No, Madam:  I am one of her tenants’ sons.  Her lady-mother must not know as how I came of this errand.  But the letter, I suppose, will tell you all.

Widow.  How shall I satisfy you for this kind trouble?

Fellow.  No how at all.  What I do is for love of Miss Howe.  She will satisfy me more than enough.  But, may-hap, you can send no answer, you are so ill.

Widow.  Was you ordered to wait for an answer?

Fellow.  No, I cannot say as that I was.  But I was bidden to observe how you looked, and how you was; and if you did write a line or two, to take care of it, and give it only to our young landlady in secret.

Widow.  You see I look strangely.  Not so well as I used to do.

Fellow.  Nay, I don’t know that I ever saw you but once before; and that was at a stile, where I met you and my young landlady; but knew better than to stare a gentlewoman in the face; especially at a stile.

Widow.  Will you eat, or drink, friend?

Fellow.  A cup of small ale, I don’t care if I do.

Widow.  Margaret, take the young man down, and treat him with what the house affords.

Fellow.  Your servant, Madam.  But I staid to eat as I come along, just upon the Heath yonder; or else, to say the truth, I had been here sooner. [Thank my stars, thought I, thou didst.] A piece of powdered beef was upon the table, at the sign of the Castle, where I stopt to inquire for this house:  and so, thoff I only intended to wet my whistle, I could not help eating.  So shall only taste of your ale; for the beef was woundily corned.

Prating dog!  Pox on thee! thought I.

He withdrew, bowing and scraping.

Margaret, whispered I, in a female voice [whispering out of the closet, and holding the parlour-door in my hand] get him out of the house as fast as you can, lest they come from church, and catch him here.

Peggy.  Never fear, Sir.

The fellow went down, and it seems, drank a large draught of ale; and Margaret finding him very talkative, told him, she begged his pardon, but she had a sweetheart just come from sea, whom she was forced to hide in the pantry; so was sure he would excuse her from staying with him.

Ay, ay, to be sure, the clown said:  for if he could not make sport, he would spoil none.  But he whispered her, that one ’Squire Lovelace was a damnation rogue, if the truth might be told.

For what? said Margaret.  And could have given him, she told the widow (who related to me all this) a good dowse of the chaps.

For kissing all the women he came near.

At the same time, the dog wrapped himself round Margery, and gave her a smack, that, she told Mrs. Bevis afterwards, she might have heard into the parlour.

Such, Jack, is human nature:  thus does it operate in all degrees; and so does the clown, as well as his practises!  Yet this sly dog knew not but the wench had a sweetheart locked up in the pantry!  If the truth were known, some of the ruddy-faced dairy wenches might perhaps call him a damnation rogue, as justly as their betters of the same sex might ’Squire Lovelace.