Undoubtedly even in these days of more than primitive simplicity and of sober habiliments Master Hymn-of-Praise Busy, butler at Acol Court in the county of Kent, and his henchman, Master Courage Toogood, would have been conspicuous for the shabbiness and poverty of the livery which they wore.

The hour was three in the afternoon.  Outside a glorious July sun spread radiance and glow over an old-fashioned garden, over tall yew hedges, and fantastic forms of green birds and heads of beasts carefully cut and trimmed, over clumps of late roses and rough tangles of marguerites and potentillas, of stiff zinnias and rich-hued snapdragons.

Through the open window came the sound of wood knocking against wood, of exclamations of annoyance or triumph as the game proceeded, and every now and then a ripple of prolonged laughter, girlish, fresh, pure as the fragrant air, clear as the last notes of the cuckoo before he speaks his final farewell to summer.

Every time that echo of youth and gayety penetrated into the oak-raftered dining-room, Master Hymn-of-Praise Busy pursed his thick lips in disapproval, whilst the younger man, had he dared, would no doubt have gone to the window, and leaning out as far as safety would permit, have tried to catch a glimpse of the skittle alley and of a light-colored kirtle gleaming among the trees.  But as it was he caught the older man’s stern eyes fixed reprovingly upon him, he desisted from his work of dusting and polishing, and, looking up to the heavy oak-beam above him, he said with becoming fervor: 

“Lord! how beautifully thou dost speak, Master Busy!”

“Get on with thy work, Master Courage,” retorted the other relentlessly, “and mix not thine unruly talk with the wise sayings of thy betters.”

“My work is done, Master.”

“Go fetch the pasties then, the quality will be in directly,” rejoined the other peremptorily, throwing a scrutinizing look at the table, whereon a somewhat meager collation of cherries, raspberries and gooseberries and a more generous bowl of sack-posset had been arranged by Mistress Charity and Master Courage under his own supervision.

“Doubtless, doubtless,” here interposed the young maid somewhat hurriedly, desirous perhaps of distracting the grave butler’s attention from the mischievous oglings of the lad as he went out of the room, “as you remark—­hem—­as thou remarkest, this place of service is none to the liking of such as ... thee ...”

She threw him a coy glance from beneath well-grown lashes, which caused the saintly man to pass his tongue over his lips, an action which of a surety had not the desire for spiritual glory for its mainspring.  With dainty hands Mistress Charity busied herself with the delicacies upon the table.  She adjusted a gooseberry which seemed inclined to tumble, heaped up the currants into more graceful pyramids.  Womanlike, whilst her eyes apparently followed the motions of her hands they nevertheless took stock of Master Hymn-of-Praise’s attitude with regard to herself.