“Nay, sir,” she retorted, shaking her head, “you’m so clever you must guess if ye can.” “Agreed!” smiled Sir John. “Suffer me to sit beside you—thus, and whiles we gaze up at stately Luna, Chaste Dian, Isis the mysterious, I, her most humble votary, will strive to rede thee thy past, present and future. And first—thy name? It should be sweet and simple like thyself and breathe of England. And if it is not Phyllida, it should be Rosamond or Lettice or Anthea or——” “Nay, sir,” she sighed, “’tis only Rose!” “Aye, and what better!” quoth he. “’Tis a sweet English name and easy to rhyme with. Let us try.” And with his gaze uplift to the moon, Sir John extemporised thus: “O flower of Love, thou fragrant Rose Thy love methinks should be A balm to soothe all earthly woes A sweetness that unfading blows Through all eternity—— “Hum! ’Tis not so bad, though ’faith it might be better. That last line is something trite perhaps! Aye, I may better it with a little thought!” “Nay—nay,’tis well as ’tis!” she exclaimed. “’Tis excellent, I ... ’deed, sir, I do think you’m a tur’ble clever gentleman!” “Though no poet, Rose, I fear! So much for thy name! Now as to thyself. Thou’rt a woman and young, and hast therefore dreamed o’ love——” “La, sir, how should’ee know that? ’Ee du make me blush!” “And have you loved often, child?” “Oh, fie and no, sir! I’m no fine lady——” “Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Sir John fervently, and lowered his gaze to the face so near his own, which was immediately averted. “Pray won’t your honour please tell me some more about myself?” she pleaded. “As what, child?” “What I am, what I do for a livin’—an’ all about me?” “Why, then,” pursued Sir John, “you are maid to serve some prideful, painted creature——” “Oh,’tis wonderful!” she murmured. “Some haughty, ineffective she who perchance rails at thee, pinches and slaps thee, pulls thy pretty hair, envying thy sweet, fresh beauty.” “Oh, ’tis like witchcraft!” she murmured in awestruck tones. “And thou’rt in France, child, because she is here and travels belike to Paris.” Sir John turned to find her regarding him in speechless wonder. “Well, child?” he questioned. “O sir!” she whispered. “’Tis all—so—marvellous true. Now tell me, oh, please your honour—tell me o’ the future. Shall I ever be a fine, grand lady—shall I?” “God forbid!” he answered. “Nature formed thee a better thing! Thou’rt artless as the flowers that bloom, and the birds that sing because they must, for pure joy of it. Thou’rt sweet and fresh as the breath of Spring—heaven keep thee so, if ’tis indeed to Paris you journey, child.” “Indeed, sir, and so ’tis.”