Then she hobbled away faster than ever, and the poor boy kept on.  Then he met the schoolmaster, who had his new poem in a great roll in his hand.  “What little vagabond is this?” muttered he, gazing at him with disgust.  “He hath driven a fine metaphor out of my head.”

When the boy reached the cottage where Margary and her mother lived, the dame was sitting in the door spinning, and the little girl was picking roses from a bush under the window, to fill a tall china mug which they kept on a shelf.

When Margary heard the gate click, and turning, saw the boy, she started so that she let her pinafore full of roses slip, and the flowers all fell out on the ground.  Then she dropped an humble curtesy; and her mother rose and curtesied also, though she had not recognized her guest as soon as Margary.

The poor little stranger fairly wept for joy.  “Ah, you remember me,” he said betwixt smiles and tears.

Then he entered the cottage, and while Margary and her mother got some refreshment ready for him, he told his pitiful story.

His father was a Lindsay, and a very rich and noble gentleman.  Some little time before, he and his little son had journeyed to London, with their coach-and-four.  Business having detained him longer than he had anticipated, and fearing his lady might be uneasy, he had sent his son home in advance, in the coach, with his lackeys and attendants.  Everything had gone safely till after leaving this village.  Some miles beyond, they had been attacked by highwaymen and robbed.  The servants had either been taken prisoners or fled.  The thieves had driven off with the coach-and-four, and the poor little boy had crawled back to the village.

Margary and her mother did all they could to comfort him.  They prepared some hot broth for him, and opened a bottle of cowslip wine.  Margary’s mother gave him some clean clothes, which had belonged to her son who had died.  The little gentleman looked funny in the little rustic’s blue smock, but he was very comfortable.  They fed the forlorn little dog too, and washed him till his white hair looked fluffy and silky again.

When the London mail stopped in the village, the next day, they sent a message to Lord Lindsay, and in a week’s time, he came after his son.  He was a very grand gentleman; his dress was all velvet and satin, and blazing with jewels.  How the villagers stared.  They had flatly refused to believe that this last little stranger was the first one, and had made great fun of Margary and her mother for being so credulous.  But they had not minded.  They had given their guest a little pallet stuffed with down, and a pillow stuffed with rose-leaves to sleep on, and fed him with the best they had.  His father, in his gratitude, offered Margary’s mother rich rewards; but she would take nothing.  The little boy cried on parting with his kind friends, and Margary cried too.

“I prithee, pretty Margary, do not forget me,” said he.