“Chock, take my purse, tumble as fast as your two legs can carry you down, out, across to the wigmaker’s we laughed at when we came in, buy me the yellow wig, Chock, that adorns the front, an’ come not back without it, an you love me, Chock; wheedle, coax, promise more’n there is here,” sticking the purse in the astounded woman’s hand, “but get me the wig that is the very double of dear Sir Robin’s own sweet pate!” She pushes Chockey out on the landing with an impetus that sends her well on her errand, and then, shutting and buttoning the door, Lady Peggy gets herself out of her furbelows and petticoats, her stays, her bodice, her collar, brooch, kerchief, pocket, hoop and hair pins, and into her brother’s suit of grays, the new waistcoat and cravat she’s brought him for a gift; she tips the coffee-pot and washes her face and pretty throat and hands in the brown liquid; she plaits her long hair and winds it close and tight about her head; she buckles on Kennaston’s Court-rapier, she fetches his gray plumed hat with its paste buckle from the press; she ogles herself in the six-inch mirror; she swaggers, swings, struts; and, says she, dipping her finger in the soot of the old chimney and marking out two black beetling brows over her own slender ones,— “An I know not how to play at being Sir Robin, Lady Peggy’s chosen sweetheart, boldly and with a loud voice; know not how to swear and prance and pick a pretty quarrel, crying ‘Match me your Lady Diana with my Lady Peggy!’ then never did I dozen times for sport don my twin’s breeches and coat and masquerade at being that sweet creature,—a man! Ha! I have it all at fingers’ ends!” cries Peggy, fumbling in her discarded pocket. “Here’s the very letter I writ for Sir Robin to take and present to my brother. ’Twill stand me in good stead to-night that I forgot to give it to him. If Chockey but succeed in cajoling the man out of his wig, an’ if the gallants come not ere I can fit it to my head!”—opening the door impetuously almost to bump against the returning Chockey’s nose. “Thou hast it! Oh Chock! ’Tis I! be not afraid. Come in; adjust it to my poll,—so! Lose not a moment; pick up my petticoats, leave not a scrap that bespeaks a woman; there! You’re dropping a hair-pin; now, up with ye to the loft! an’ no matter if rats nibble your toes, Chock, or mice come play bo-peep with your eye-winkers, or spiders weave across your mouth, an you stir, cry out, move an inch to the creaking of a board, I’ll leave you here your lone self to shift as best you may! Up girl!” touching the speechless Chockey with the rapier-tip urgingly, “and ’tis Sir Robin McTart that bids you!”