“Are you turned poet too, Master Anthony?  Mary Mathews, down at the farm, has a prettier face, or I am no judge of female beauty.”

“We all know your penchant for Mary Mathews.  But seriously, Godfrey, if you do not mean to marry the poor girl, it is very cruel to pay her such lover-like attentions.”

“One must do something, Tony, to pass away the time in this dull place.  As to marrying the girl, you surely do not take me for a fool?”

“I should be sorry to take you for something worse.  Last night you went too far, when you took the sweet-briar rose from her bosom and placed it in your own; and said that you preferred it to all the flowers in the garden; that your highest ambition was to win and wear the wild rose.  The poor girl believed you.  Did you not see how she looked down and blushed, and then up in your face with the tears in her eyes, and a sweet smile on her severed lips.  Surely, my dear cousin, it is wrong to give birth to hopes which you never mean to realize.”

A crimson flush passed over Godfrey’s brow as he answered haughtily.  “Nonsense, Anthony! you take up this matter too seriously.  Women love flattery, and if we are bound in honor to marry all the women we compliment, the law must be abolished that forbids polygamy.”

“I know one who would not fail to take advantage of such an act,” said Anthony.  “But really, matters that concern the happiness and misery of our fellow creatures are too serious for a joke.  I hope poor Mary’s light heart will never be rendered heavy by your gallantry.”

Again the color flushed the cheek of Godfrey.  He looked down, slashed his well-polished boot with his riding-whip, and endeavored to hum a tune, and appear indifferent to his cousin’s lecture, but it would not do; and telling Anthony that he was in no need of a Mentor, he whistled to a favorite spaniel, and dashing his spurs into his horse, was soon out of sight.

Mary Mathews, the young girl who formed the subject of this conversation, was a strange eccentric creature, more remarkable for the beauty of her person, and her masculine habits, than for any good qualities she possessed.  Her father rented a small farm, the property of Colonel Hurdlestone; her mother died while she was yet a child, and her only brother ran away from following the plough and went to sea.

Mathews was a rude, clownish, matter-of-fact man; he wanted some person to assist him in looking after the farm, and taking care of the stock; and he brought up Mary to fill the place of the son he had lost, early inuring her to take an active part, in those manual labors which were peculiar to his vocation.  Mary was a man in everything but her face and figure, which were exceedingly soft and feminine; and if her complexion had not been a little injured by constant exposure to the atmosphere, she would have been a perfect beauty; and in spite of these disadvantages she was considered the belle of the village.