Courts and coronets had no attractions for him.  His marriage had proved a bitter draught.  He was a disappointed and disillusioned man, and he determined that if ever he took another wife she should be “a plain, homely, and truly virtuous maiden, in whatever sphere of life I find her.  Then I swear with King Cophetua, ’This beggar-maid shall be my Queen.’”

Full of this romantic, if quixotic, resolve, Henry Cecil strapped a knapsack on his back, and, staff in hand, tramped off in search of the “beggar-maid” who was to bring him happiness at last; or, if he could not discover her, at least to find some place of retirement where he could lead a simple life, remote from the empty splendours and vanities of the world to which he was born, and in which he had sought happiness in vain.

And thus it was that in his wanderings his steps led him to the little village in Shropshire, and to the hospitable roof of Farmer Hoggins and his good wife, whose hearts he had won before the humble supper-table was cleared on that stormy July night.  No doubt the stranger’s enjoyment of the farmer’s hospitality was enhanced by the glimpses he had caught of his host’s daughter, Sarah, a rustic beauty of seventeen summers, with a complexion of “cream and roses,” with a wealth of brown hair, and lovely blue eyes which from time to time glanced shyly at the good-looking stranger.

No doubt, too, it was the wish to see more of pretty Miss Sarah that was responsible for the stranger’s reluctance to resume his journey on the following morning, which dawned bright and beautiful.  So far from showing any anxiety to continue his tramping, Cecil begged his host’s and hostess’s permission to spend a few days with them.  He was, he said, a painter by profession; it would give him the greatest pleasure to spend a few days sketching in such a beautiful district; and he would pay well for the hospitality.

The farmer and his wife, who had already grown attached to their pleasant guest, were by no means unwilling to accept the offer; nor did they raise any protest when the days grew into weeks and months.  These were halcyon days for the world-weary man—­delightful days of sketching in the open air in an environment of natural beauty; peaceful evenings spent with his simple-minded hosts and friends; and, happiest of all, the hours in which he basked in the smiles and blushes of pretty Sarah Hoggins, carrying home her pails of milk, helping her to churn the butter, or telling to her wondering ears stories of the great world outside her ken, while the sunset steeped the orchard trees above their heads in glory.