“Sing for your supper, like Master Tom Tucker,” said the Cavalier. “Yes, sing, by all means; only come down to do it. I’ll go bail for her,” he assured the landlord. The man grumbled, but submitted, and George beckoned the nymph. “Descend,” said he, “and give us of your quality. You shall not lose by it.” She nodded, disappeared for a moment, and returning with a lute, ran to the stairs, descended to the yard, and stood among the company, confident and unabashed. And straight and readily she touched the strings, with slender fingers seeming oddly native to that tuneful contact, and sang the little song which afterwards came to be the most associated with her naughty name. My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear. Oh, turn, love, I prythee, love, turn to me, For thou art the only one, love, that art ador’d by me. I’ll twine thee a garland of straw, love, I’ll marry thee with a rush ring, My frozen hopes will thaw, love, And merrily we will sing. Then turn to me, my own love; I prythee, love, turn to me, For thou art the only one, love, that art ador’d by me. There was silence as she ended, for indeed the child’s voice was of the sweetest, as full and natural as a bird’s; and then came a round of applause. Hamilton hushed it, rather angrily. “Would ye slam down the lid of the virginal while the last notes still ring in it?” he said. “Unfeeling dolts!” Sweet music touched him; perhaps it was the only gentleness that could. It wrought a glamour which willy-nilly fooled his better reason. It did so now, conscious as he was of his own enthralment. Here was no longer a child adventuress, but a plaintive innocent, melodiously sorrowing in Nature’s very voice. He was never a giver in the disinterested sense; now the song decided a point on which he had hitherto wavered. He turned impulsively to the landlord. “What is her debt?” said he. “I discharge it.” “Thirty shillings and a groat,” answered the other promptly. “Knock off the groat,” said Hamilton, “for your contribution. What, man, who calls the tune must pay the piper.” He would hear no remonstrances, but waved the innkeeper away. “Come aside with me,” he said to the girl; and, very willingly it seemed, she obeyed. He led her to a table apart, where he sat her down, himself facing her, and there was none of the company rash enough to question by so much as a snigger that implied claim to privacy in a public place. Most dispersed about their business, while the few who remained gave the couple a respectfully wide berth. “Now,” said Hamilton, “who are you, pretty one?” “A poor deserted wife, kind sir,” she answered, “as ever wedded a villain.” “A wife--you baby!” “Please, I was married in long clothes,” said she. “And who taught you that song?” “Grief,” she said--“and Mr. Bedding.” “Your husband?”