fered me this, he offered me that, but nought less would I take than
his next quarter's wages.

"Cruel," murmured the girl, scarce audibly.

"Why, you are in one tale with your father. Says he to me when I told
him, 'Oh, an he loves her hair so well, 'tis odd but he loves the rest
of her. Well,' quoth he, ''tis an honest lad, and a shall have her, gien
she will but leave her sulks and consent.' So, what say ye, mistress,
will you be married to Ulrich, or buried i' the kirkyard?"

"Father! father!"

"'Tis so, girl, speak thy mind."

"I will obey my father--in all things," stammered the poor girl, trying
hard to maintain the advantageous position in which Margaret had placed
her. But nature, and the joy and surprise, were too strong even for a
virgin's bashful cunning. She cast an eloquent look on them both, and
sank at her father's knees, and begged his pardon, with many sobs for
having doubted his tenderness.

He raised her in his arms, and took her, radiant through her tears with
joy, and returning life, and filial love, to his breast; and the pair
passed a truly sacred moment, and the dignitary was as happy as he
thought to be miserable; so hard is it for mortals to foresee. And they
looked round for Margaret, but she had stolen away softly.

The young girl searched the house for her.

"Where is she hid? Where on earth is she?"

Where was she? why, in her own house, dressing meat for her two old
children, and crying bitterly the while at the living picture of
happiness she had just created.

"Well-a-day, the odds between her lot and mine; well-a-day!"

Next time she met the dignitary he hemm'd and hawed, and remarked what
a pity it was the law forbade him to pay her who had cured his daughter.
"However, when all is done, 'twas not art, 'twas but woman's wit."

"Nought but that, burgomaster," said Margaret bitterly. "Pay the men of
art for not curing her: all the guerdon I seek, that cured her, is this:
go not and give your foul linen away from me by way of thanks."

"Why should I?" inquired he.

"Marry, because there be fools about ye will tell ye she that hath wit
to cure dark diseases, cannot have wit to take dirt out o' rags; so
pledge me your faith."

The dignitary promised pompously, and felt all the patron.

Something must be done to fill "To-morrow's" box. She hawked her initial
letters and her illuminated vellums all about the town. Printing had by
this time dealt caligraphy in black and w