I know, for I was nurse in
the family a hundred year ago."
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.
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