He had become very red, had honest John, and his rough manner seemed completely to have deserted him. In fact, not to put too fine a point upon it, the worthy smith looked distinctly shy and sheepish. She looked up at him and laughed a pleased, coquettish little laugh, the laugh of a woman who has oft been told that she is pretty, and has not tired of the hearing. John Stich, moreover, was so big and burly, folks called him hard and rough, and it vastly entertained the young damsel to see him standing there before her, as awkward and uncomfortable as Jock Miggs himself. "Am I not to step inside, Master Stich?" she asked. "Yes, yes, Mistress Betty," murmured John, who seemed to have lost himself in admiration of a pair of tiny buckled shoes muddy to the ankles—such ankles!—which showed to great advantage beneath Betty’s short green kirtle. An angry, impatient movement behind him, however, quickly recalled his scattered senses. "Did her ladyship receive a letter, mistress?" he asked eagerly. "Oh, yes! a stranger brought it," replied Betty, with a pout, for she preferred John’s mute appreciation of her small person to his interest in other matters. However, the demon of mischief no doubt whispered something in her ear for the further undoing of the worthy smith, for she put on a demure, mysterious little air, turned up her brown eyes, sighed with affectation, and murmured ecstatically,— "Oh! such a stranger! the fine eyes of him, Master Stich! and such an air, and oh!" added little madam with unction, "such clothes!" But though no doubt all these fine airs and graces wrought deadly havoc in poor John’s heart, he concealed it well enough under a show of eager impatience. "Yes! yes! the stranger," he said, casting a furtive glance behind him, "he gave you a letter for my lady?" "La! you needn’t be in such a hurry, Master Stich!" retorted Mistress Betty, adding with all the artifice of which she was capable, "the stranger wasn’t." But this was too much for John. There had been such a wealth of meaning in Betty’s brown eyes. "Oh! he wasn’t? was he?" he asked with a jealous frown, "and pray what had he to say to you? There was no message except the letter." But the demon of mischief was satisfied and Betty was disposed to be kind, even if slightly mysterious. "Oh, never mind!" she rejoined archly, "he gave me a letter which I gave to my lady. That was early this morning." "Well? ... and?" But matters were progressing too slowly at anyrate for one feverish, anxious heart. Philip had tried to hold himself in check, though he was literally hanging on pretty Mistress Betty’s lips. Now he could contain himself no longer. Lady Patience had had his letter. The mysterious highwayman had not failed in his trust, and the news Betty had brought meant life or death to him. Throwing prudence to the winds, he pushed John Stich aside, and seizing the young girl by the wrist, he asked excitedly,—