“Chockey, I shall fall into a fit, an I’ve ever another letter to write in this world. The last I writ was for Sir Robin to introduce him to Lord Kennaston when he should go up to town—and belike, I forgot to give it to him as I promised and have it safe here. It took me a week to finish, and I’ve copied all the words out of it I can, yet do I lack thousands more, methinks, to say what I would to my brother. Lud! Learning’s a wonderful thing! Look at that, Chock!” Lady Peggy holds up the well covered pages of Kennaston’s letter before the eyes of the Abigail. “Aye, Madam,” giggles this one, “it has the air to me of where spiders has been a-fightin’! Now, for true, My Lady, do it say words as has a meanin’?” “Listen,” replies the mistress, reading off quite glibly, since ’tis the one hundredth time since she got it that she’s rehearsed the same to herself. “SWEET SISTER PEGGY: I’d have written before but that literature pays ill until a man hath contrived by preference and patronage, the rather than by his wits, to place himself at evens with the Great and the Distinguished. So far I find Fame’s hill hard in the Climbing, but do I not complain, for there’s that spirit reigning in my breast as bids me welcome Poverty, even Starvation, lead it but to the sometime recognition of my Talents. I take up my pen not to riddle your ears with plaints, but on another matter, which is Sir Percy.” Lady Peggy’s head droops a bit to match her voice, whilst Chockey’s bright little eyes sparkle, and she twists the yellow butter into heart shapes as she pricks her ears and sighs. “Sir Percy,” continues My Lady Peggy, reading, “as you know came up to town, now these seven weeks agone, straight as a die to my meagre chambers, where welcome was spelled, I can assure thee, all over the bare floor, barer board, and barer master thereof,—for of a truth I love him as should I the brother I had hoped he’d be! Peg, what’s this thou’st done to the lad? Thrown him, a gallant with as big a heart as God ever made, over into the Devil’s own mire, for sake of that little tow-haired sprat, Robin McTart! with his pate full of himself and none other,—so I’ve heard say, for never set I eyes upon the blackguard from Kent! Zounds! twin! What are ye women made of? And I write to say Percy, what with carousals and brawls, and drink and fights, and all night at the gaming-table, and all day God knows where, ’s fast a-throwing himself piecemeal into the grave he’s a-digging daily for your cruel sake. Could you but see him! A ghost! Wan, with eyes full of blood-spots, and hair unkempt! Madam, there’s love for you—and love’s what ladies like. Go match him, Sister, with McTart if you can, but twin me no more ever again an you and I wear black ribbons for Percy de Bohun!” Lady Peggy’s lip quivers; so does Chockey’s. “Lawk, My Lady!” cries the girl, splashing tears into the butter, reckless.