She knew that in defiance of my Lord Protector and all his Puritans she was looking her best this afternoon:  though her kirtle was as threadbare as Master Courage’s breeches it was nevertheless just short enough to display to great advantage her neatly turned ankle and well-arched foot on which the thick stockings—­well-darned—­and shabby shoes sat not at all amiss.

Her kerchief was neatly folded, white and slightly starched, her cuffs immaculately and primly turned back just above her round elbow and shapely arm.

On the whole Mistress Charity was pleased with her own appearance.  Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse and the mistress were seeing company this afternoon, and the neighboring Kentish squires who had come to play skittles and to drink sack-posset might easily find a less welcome sight than that of the serving maid at Acol Court.

“As for myself,” now resumed Mistress Charity, after a slight pause, during which she had felt Master Busy’s admiring gaze fixed persistently upon her, “as for myself, I’ll seek service with a lady less like to find such constant fault with a hard-working maid.”

Master Courage had just returned carrying a large dish heaped up with delicious looking pasties fresh from the oven, brown and crisp with butter, and ornamented with sprigs of burrage which made them appear exceedingly tempting.

Charity took the dish from the lad and heavy as it was, she carried it to the table and placed it right in the very center of it.  She rearranged the sprigs of burrage, made a fresh disposition of the baskets of fruit, whilst both the men watched her open-mouthed, agape at so much loveliness and grace.

“And,” she added significantly, looking with ill-concealed covetousness at the succulent pasties, “where there’s at least one dog or cat about the place.”

“I know not, mistress,” said Hymn-of-Praise, “that thou wast over-fond of domestic pets ...  ’Tis sinful to ...”

“La!  Master Busy, you ... hem ... thou mistakest my meaning.  I have no love for such creatures—­but without so much as a kitten about the house, prithee how am I to account to my mistress for the pasties and ... and comfits ... not to speak of breakages.”

“There is always Master Courage,” suggested Hymn-of-Praise, with a movement of the left eyelid which in the case of any one less saintly might have been described as a sly wink.

“That there is not,” interrupted the lad decisively; “my stomach rebels against comfits, and sack-posset could never be laid to my door.”

“I give thee assurance, Master Busy,” concluded the young girl, “that the county of Kent no longer suits my constitution.  ’Tis London for me, and thither will I go next year.”

“’Tis a den of wickedness,” commented Busy sententiously, “in spite of my Lord Protector, who of a truth doth turn his back on the Saints and hath even allowed the great George Fox and some of the Friends to languish in prison, whilst profligacy holds undisputed sway.  Master Courage, meseems those mugs need washing a second time,” he added, with sudden irrelevance.  “Take them to the kitchen, and do not let me set eyes on thee until they shine like pieces of new silver.”