And the tray, decorated with a little silver cup holding the two or three reckless sprigs of epigæa, which had ventured before their time into a world not yet ready for them, was carried into the fore-room, where Sir Christopher stood at the window impatiently considering his swollen and discolored hands from which he had removed the bandages. Before we attend to him, however, let us here note that the _Epigæa repens_ still blooms in Plymouth so early, that by May-day it is gone; and it is not, and never was, and never will be an arbutus, although a world which chooses to say “commence” instead of “begin,” and “locate” instead of “build,” insists upon calling it so, and probably will so insist as long as time endures. “Ah! Good-morrow, little maid!” exclaimed the knight, a smile replacing the scowl of vexation. “I have not seen you before. Are you Master Alden’s daughter?” “Yes, sir,” replied Betty, placing her tray upon the table, and then turning to make her little curtsy, for Betty knew her manners as well as any young gentlewoman alive. “Mother was over-busy this morning to attend you, and so sent me with your breakfast.” “And a right tempting breakfast, too!” declared Gardiner, seizing the pewter beer-mug and half emptying it at a draught. “Ha! ’tis good! A right honest strike of malt!” added he, carefully wiping his long mustachios and smiling upon Betty, who stood solemnly regarding him. “And a posy, too! A posy that looks marvelously like thyself, child, so sweet and tender, yet blossoming from out austere and rigid foliage. What is thy name, little one?” “Elizabeth Alden, sir; but I’m mostly called Betty.” “Ay, then, this flower is the Bettina, or the Betty-belle, or the Bettissimo, is it not?” “Nay, sir; we call it mayflower, because father says it minds him of the English may that blooms in the hedges where he was born. But the doctor, who is wondrous wise about herbs, will still give it some hard name I cannot remember. He knows botany, the doctor does.” “Ay, does he? Well, I would he knew a way to make me a well man and a free one.” And the knight, hastily pushing aside his half-eaten breakfast, began to pace up and down the room in restless anger and impatience. Betty, halfway to the door, stopped and regarded him pitifully, then timidly said,-- “I would I could help you, sir. Shall I bring my kitten to see you? or mayhap you’d like Shakem better?” “And what is Shakem, thou pretty child?” “He’s father’s little dog that catches rats and shakes them so merrily, and he knows tricks, too: he’ll stand up and beg, and he’ll catch the bits on his nose, and he’ll play at being dead”-- “Nay, then, Betty, he’s not for me! I need no mimic deaths to mind me of mine own. Ohé!” “Is that the ‘worse’ that mother meant? Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” “Worse that thy mother meant? Now what’s that riddle, child?”