“What a buttermilk kind of a message is that!” said the soldier.  Dost think that a man of any spirit is going to be satisfied with an errand that runs like a stream of cold water down one’s back?  Come, Prudence, perk thy red lips into more reasonable and comforting words.”

“Thou art thyself unreasonable, Philip.  Dost suppose it becomes a young woman to let her gallant know all she thinks about him?  He ought to be ravished to believe that she does not hate him like the rest of them who wear beards; at any rate, thou wilt get nothing else from me.”

“I must perforce, then, be content,” said Philip, “since it may not be otherwise; and the less unwillingly because having had some experience in the nature of women, I know they mean more than they say.  So I will even translate thy words into thy mistress’ intention, and say she is dying of melancholy till she sees him.”

“Thou wilt be a false varlet an’ thou dost, and I will never trust thee with message more.  Such leasing will only harm thee, for Master Miles knows there is not in America nor in dear old Devonshire a modester or properer young lady.  O dear, how glad I should be just to step into the grand cathedral in sweet Exeter, and see the brave knights who died so long ago all lying cross-legged, so decent on their marble tombs by the sides of their ladies.”

“Take care, my little Puritan,” said Philip, “this is no fitting country for such talk.  The reverend elders have long ears, and for aught I know, there may be one in the tree overhead listening.”

Prudence jumped hastily from her seat, and cast a frightened glance at these words into the tree, while Philip burst into a laugh.

“Why, how you scared me,” said the girl, recovering from her trepidation.  “This is the way you treat me, you vile man, for putting myself to all this trouble on your account.  But I would have you to know that I am no more a Puritan, Philip Joy, than thyself, if I do wear a close-fitting cap, which is none of the most becoming either.  If I do give into their ways, it is for the sake of my mistress, whom no Geneva cloak, nor bishop’s sleeves, for that matter, shall make me desert.”

“Bravo, bravissimo, as the outlandish fellows say,” exclaimed the soldier; “thou art of the genuine game breed, Prudence, and were it not that thy pretty person might come to harm, I would desire no better front rank man than thee.  But this is a dangerous litany, and I beseech thee, dear Prudence, to remember how thou art named.”

He said this in a tone of emotion, which, if anything were wanting, would have been sufficient to convince the girl of the interest he felt for her; but she needed no such supplementary proof.  It had the effect, however, of making the conversation assume a more serious aspect, and the girl more gravely replied: 

“I will be careful, Philip, for my mistress’ sake and mine own, and—­”

“And for mine, too,” interrupted the soldier.