When my love comes, O, I will not upbraid him! He meant but for kindness the gift that he gave. Is he to blame for the Heaven that made him A heart full of tenderness meet to enslave? When my love comes I will promise him roses, Gift for the gift that he laid in my breast. O, for that promise his kindness discloses, Will he not kiss me and make me his blest? There’s a cry in the air of the cuckoo, sweet comer; The daffodils blow and there’s green on the tree; There’s a nest in the roof that is empty since summer-- When my love comes will he warm it for me? It took her hearers by surprise, Hamilton not least. He was so moved, indeed, for the moment, that he failed to observe its effect on Chesterfield. They all dwelt silent for a little, while the girl, conscious of the impression she had made, looked down, still softly touching the strings. And then in a twinkle her mood changed. She shook her curls, laughed, touched out a lively air, and began to dance. Her dancing was like her playing, her singing--native, unaffected, captivating, a rhythm of lightness, seeming to mock gravitation. It was to help to make her famous by and by--in days when the susceptible Mr. Pepys was to go into raptures over seeing “little Miss Davis” jigging at the play-end; and, indeed, it was very pretty, so elf-like, so unforced. It roused the enthusiasm of at least two of her company. When, laughing and rosy, she ceased, Chesterfield came to her all in a glow. “It was prettier than the frisking of your own lambs,” said he. “Did you learn it of a shepherd’s piping, and your song of the nightingale? I vow I envy the country its possession of such a Corisande.” My lady rose from her chair, and, without turning her head, walked erect from the room. Hamilton, watching the Earl with a furtive smile, heard her go, and breathed a silent benediction on his own success. CHAPTER VIII Mr. Pepys--to mention him once again--kept, as we know, a commonplace book, in which he was accustomed to jot down (in shorthand, let us hope) the good stories, post-prandial and otherwise, which came his way. It must have been a rich if unseemly collection, and is ill lost in these days to a world which, whatever its mental capital, has never more than enough of refreshing anecdotes to go round. Included in it, one may be sure, were those gems of information (as related in the Diary) proffered at my lord Crewe’s table by one Templer on the habits of the viper and the tarantula. This Mr. Templer, we note, was a clergyman, and by virtue of his cloth should be exonerated from the suspicion, otherwise irresistible, that he was pulling our Samuel’s fat leg. But it is worth quoting the passage _in extenso_ that the reader may judge for himself--