Notes there had been, daily, as soon as Chockey had let him know that her mistress was in her head once more, and the two surgeons, down from London, had pronounced Her Ladyship on the mend; notes, and flowers and fruits, and game and fish to tempt her appetite; a little dog from Pomerania; a Persian boy to wait upon her whims; a mare, as white as milk; sweetmeats from the Indies; damasks from China and France; shells and curious beadwork slippers from the American Colonies—whither, it is needless to say, a certain good ship had sailed, leaving a certain young gentleman behind—all these things, and many more besides, were offered up at Her Ladyship’s shrine, but never yet had she been able to bring herself to scribble one line to her suitor, or to send any message, save polite civilities by Chockey. ’Twas only after the buxom damsel (having the night previous heard from Grigson that his master was like to die of suspense, and having imparted the same to Her Ladyship), together with the Lady Mother and the Earl, had argued and preached into her the great and chivalrous devotion of Sir Percy, that Peggy at last had brought her mind into a condition of acquiescing in his coming up to her morning-room on the Thursday (being St. James’s Day) after the sixth Sunday after Trinity; which same she carefully marked in her prayer-book with a dab of the crimson her mother sent in to beautify her pale cheeks with, against Sir Percy’s advent. “Oh, slitterkins! Madam,” cries the Abigail under her breath, “and asking Your Ladyship’s pardon, but how can I do up Your Ladyship’s hair an’ it no longer than the peltry of a meadow-mouse!” “True enough, Jane Chockey,” replies her mistress, contemplating her countenance in the mirror. “Of a fact, I resemble nothing so much as one of those weazen little vermin; my nose is sharp, too, and my cheeks—” “Stay, My Lady,” says Chock, taking up the rouge, and putting on layer after layer. “Who’ll say Your Ladyship ain’t handsome now? Lawk, Madam! You look like an angel! What a blessing of Providence the French is with their nostrums!” Peggy regards herself. “Now, My Lady,” cries Chockey, “would you but borrow your Lady Mother’s worked head, a cup of powder, and Her Ladyship’s pink feathers atop of it! What a sight would you be for Sir Percy to behold!” Peggy shakes her head. The three feet of wire, wool, pommade, frizz and plumage the hand-maiden suggests, even causes her to laugh aloud as she figures it above her own face. “Nay, Chock, none o’ that!” says she, “I’ll do as I am. Sir Percy has seen my cropped head; faith, he ’twas, you tell me, that fetched the tail of my locks to Kennaston in his saddle-pocket, or tied upon him somewhere?”