akin to what the Squire slipped into her own hand last
night; but it is a strange strain in which to write to mother, the
dearest creature in the world, but no, not Venus in her glory nor the
Queen of the Nymphs. But though the maiden laughs, her father is not
ashamed. He still sees her to whom he wrote, and when she smiles across
the room at him, and smiles again to see her daughter's wonder, all the
years fade from the picture's face, and the vision stands as once it
was, though my young mistress' merry eyes have not the power to see it.
Let her laugh. God forbid that I should grudge it her! Soon enough shall
she sit sewing and another laugh.

Carford was gone, well-nigh healed of his wound, healed also of his
love, I trust, at least headed off from it. M. de Fontelles was gone
also, on that quest of his which made my Lord Rochester so merry; indeed
I fear that in this case the scoffer had the best of it, for he whom I
have called M. de Perrencourt was certainly served again by his
indignant subject, and that most brilliantly. Well, had I been a
Frenchman, I could have forgiven King Louis much; and I suppose that,
although an Englishman, I do not hate him greatly, since his ring is
often on my wife's finger and I see it there without pain.

It was the day before my wedding was to take place; for my lord, on
being informed of all that had passed, had sworn roundly that since
there was one honest man who sought his daughter, he would not refuse
her, lest while he waited for better things worse should come. And he
proceeded to pay me many a compliment, which I would repeat, despite of
modesty, if it chanced that I remembered them. But in truth my head was
so full of his daughter that there was no space for his praises, and his
well-turned eulogy (for my lord had a pretty flow of words) was as sadly
wasted as though he had spoken it to the statue of Apollo on his
terrace.

I had been taking dinner with the Vicar, and, since it was not yet time
to pay my evening visit to the Manor, I sat with him a while after our
meal, telling him for his entertainment how I had talked with the King
at Whitehall, what the King had said, and what I, and how my Lord
Rochester had talked finely of the Devil, and tried, but failed, to talk
of love. He drank in all with eager ears, weighing the wit in a balance,
and striving to see, through my recollection, the life and the scene and
the men that were so strange to his eyes and so familiar