"Here, too, is my woodsage, or germander," cried Dame Beckley, eagerly. "It is a fine bitter, with which we make our ale. I have tried to get Cobbe at the Pool to use it when he brews, but he is obstinate and headstrong, and will take the strange-smelling hop-nettle, which twines and runs up the stakes. Maybe Sir Mark has seen the plantation there." "Ay, that I have," said Sir Mark, smiling at Anne, while her mother prattled on. "The founder has a goodly garden, but not like mine," said the little lady, proudly. "He never grows such apples as these, nor yet such berries or such plums. I have told him much and given him many seeds, but he is a headstrong and a hard man to teach." Sir Mark bowed. "I gave him the graft to place in his stock for the choice Christmas pippins,--the Noel beauty, Sir Mark,--or he would not have had a worthy apple in his garden. Now, I prithee, come and see my bees." "Perhaps Sir Mark would not care to see the bees, mother," said Mistress Anne, demurely; "he might get stung." "I should be too pleased to see them," said Sir Mark, eagerly; and he was led up this long walk, down that, between the closely-cropped yew-trees and the edges of box, all kept in wondrously-regular order, and the beds lush with many-coloured, sweet-scented plants, which grew in clusters luxuriant and strong. Sir Mark assumed a look of pleasure, and Mistress Anne was innocence itself; her eyes downcast and a trembling, hesitating expression in her countenance, though she plainly saw that Sir Mark was wearied out and longed to go in and rest. "There is the orchard, that Sir Mark has not yet seen," cried Dame Beckley, to her daughter's great delight, as she hung upon the visitor's arm. "But, ladies, I must be thinking of my journey back to town." "Not without tasting our hospitality, Sir Mark," exclaimed Dame Beckley, apparently in answer to a signal from her child, and leading the way. So he was amply feasted and petted for the time, until, mounting horse once more, he rode over the bridge, and stopped to wave his hand before the trees hid Mistress Anne and her mother from view, with Sir Thomas in his feather-stuffed breeches and cock-tail hat. Volume 2, Chapter VI. HOW SWEET MACE ASKED FOR A CUP OF WATER. "Quick, Polly, my hat and cloak!" cried Mistress Anne, running up to her room, where her little handmaiden was seated at work. "Then there is some truth in the old woman's philtres after all?" "Yes, mistress, if you mean Mother Goodhugh's," cried the girl, who had caught the last words. "Why? How? What do you know?" cried Mistress Anne. "Why, mistress, everybody in love goes to her to get her help." "And who told thee I was in love, thou saucy slut?" cried Anne angrily.