"And then there's Threat Hubbelthwait," said Miggy, "that gets drunk and sets in his hotel bar fiddling, and Mis' Hubbelthwait shoves him his meals in on to the cigar show-case and runs before he throws his bow at her--she's just exactly like those two----" "Enid or Griselda?" I recognized them, and Miggy nodded. Poor Mis' Hubbelthwait! Was she not indeed an Enid, lacking her beauty, and a Griselda, with no hope of a sweet surprise of a love that but tested her? Truly, it was as Miggy said: in some form they were all there in the village, minus the bower and the silken kirtle, but with the same living hearts. And these were not all. "Miggy," I said, "what about Liva Vesey and Timothy? Did you count them?" For Aucassin and Nicolete were happy and so are Liva and Timothy, and I think that they have all understood meadows. Miggy looked startled. One's own generation never seems so typical of anything as did a generation or two past. "Could they be?" she asked. "They got engaged the night of the circus Liva told me--everybody knows. Could they be counted in?" Oh, yes, I assured her. They might be counted. So, I fancy, might all love-in-the-village, if we knew its authentic essence. "Goodness," said Miggy, meditatively, "then there's Christopha and Allen last winter, that I was their bridesmaid, and that rode off in the hills that way on their wedding night. I s'pose that was like something, if we only knew?" I could well believe that that first adventure of the young husband and wife, of whom I shall tell you, was like something sweet and bright and long ago. "And what," I said to Miggy abruptly, "about Peter?" "_Peter?_" repeated Miggy. Why not Peter? She looked out the window at him. "Why," she said, "but he's _now_. Peter's now. And he wears black clothes. And he's cutting grass...." True for Peter, to all these impeachments. I told her that, in his day, Aucassin was _now_, too; and that he wore the clothes of his times, and that if he did not do the tasks nearest his hand, then Nicolete should not have loved him. "And," said I, "unless I'm very much mistaken, in the same way that all the ancient lovers loved their ladies, Peter loves you." "_That_ way?" said Miggy, laying her hand on the manuscript. "That way," said I. And a very good way it was, too. Miggy put up both hands with a manner of pointing at herself. "Oh, no," she said, "not me." Then her little shoulders went up and she caught her breath like a child. "_Honest?_" she said.