“He ain’t begged for’t yet, dad,” says Peggy very mildly. “All I was a-wonderin’ was this: When my brother took the coach at the Mermaid that mornin’ you mind? how far off the inn where he alighted was the lodgin’ at the corner of Holywell Road and Lark Lane?—eh, dad? Surely”—and here Lady Peggy knelt and stroked his lordship’s gouty member, and her voice positively trembled, doubtless with excess of filial zeal and devotion. “Surely,” resumed she, “you, who were, I dare be sworn”—such arch eyes as Lady Peggy now made!—“a fine gallant not so many years ago, must remember that,—don’t you?” “Let’s see, let’s see,” responds His Lordship, rubbing his head. “They set ye down at the King’s Arms, nigh the Bridge, Southwark Bridge, yes; Well! Damme! I ought to know! Lark Lane? A devil of a hole; why, girl! it’s not a quarter hour’s trot from the inn, but it’s a beastly environment. Gad! that son of mine chooses pens, ink and writing-paper there, rather than—” “Lady Belinda here, weight fourteen stone; acres two thousand; guineas, countless; temper, amazin’; years, untold! ha! ha! ha! Oh, daddy!” Lady Peggy springs up and dances about a minute in most genuine gaiety, then she seizes her father’s head between her palms and hugs and kisses him with much grateful warmth; then flops down a-coddling of the gout again; laughing, giggling, pinching puss, and saying,— “Daddy, drop London! Care I no more for’t. Know I quite enough. Let’s chat of aught else in the world, until you fall a-napping, which will be soon now, guessing by the shadows.” ’Twas very soon. Then Lady Peggy tiptoed off to her chamber; then she pulled the rope that rang in the kitchen, and presently Chockey came, chopper and bowl in hand, checkered apron over white one; for serving maids were scarce in Kennaston Hall, footmen there were none; butler there was when he was not doing t’other half his duty at the stables. “Come hither, Chockey,” says her mistress in a whisper, with a beckon. “Shut the door; go on with choppin’ your leeks and carrots, cook’ll want ’em for the soup,—but listen, Chock; unlock your ears Jane Chockey, as never you did before in your life.” Chockey bobs as she chops, leaning against the headpost, for support of her occupation, and also of her curiosity. “You know my mother’s box, the small one that was re-covered last spring with the skin of the red calf that died natural? Bickers put it on with a gross of brass nails?” Chockey again bobs. “Put into it,” continues Lady Peggy, “a change of linen for yourself and me, two night-rails,” Chockey’s eyes dilate, “my gray taffeta gown with the flowered petticoat, my green hood and kerchief; powder, patch-box, lavender, musk, pins, needles; my red silken hose; your Sunday cap and sleeves”—Chockey’s chopper ceases to work, and the bed-post creaks. “All of which,” continues her mistress, “is but prelude to saying: ‘I’m going up to London by to-morrow’s coach, and I’m takin’ you with me!’”