"Ah!" sighed Master Peasegood, "the dreadful draughts that good, weak woman has presented me to drink are something terrible to think of:-- agrimony tea, balm wine, camomile tea, and a score more; but the worst of all is that dreadful juice of her sour well-squeezed grapes, that she calleth wine. Master Cobbe, will you kindly pass the ale, and methinks I'll take a pipe." The parson dined with them, and stayed on as if to supper; Tom Croftly enjoying the rest of his holiday his own way, which was in "terrifying weeds," as he called it, chopping away with a hoe at the luxuriance that sprang up in the moist, fertile garden. In the evening the seat beneath the apple-tree was occupied, and they sat and talked as the soft running murmur of the water came pleasantly to their ears, while Mace, in the enjoyment of the pleasant hours, and forgetful of her love-troubles for the time, worked as long as she could see. Sir Mark was forgotten, and, in spite of one painful remembrance, Gil's bronzed, handsome face filled her fancy as she listened to the whirr of the nightjar from the oak plantation, and from the bosky clumps away towards the ironstone hills the thrush's evening hymn; and then away and away for miles till the sweet songs sounded faint and died away. Sweet halt in the journey of her life. Sweet music of water and song-bird. Sweet scent of rose and clematis climbing round the windows of the house. The very air laden with sweetness, so that Mace asked herself why she had ever felt unhappy when she was surrounded by such joys. Not one word or thought had for hours been given to Sir Mark, and he had, as it were, dropped out of her memory for the time, till, just as supper was ready, Mace saw Tom Croftly making signs to her with the handle of his hoe. She rose, and left her father talking earnestly with the parson, to go to where the foundryman was standing waiting for her to come. "I've about terrified all them weeds, mistress," he said, "and I'm going home. The bees be all right, and I've had a rare fine day; but there be some'at as I want to say to thee, child, and I don't quite like to speak." "What is it, Tom?" said Mace. "Is it any thing I can do for you?" "Yes, mistress, it be; though I beant quite sattled in my mind whether I ought to tell'ee. Did that there trug as I made you do, mistress?" "Oh, capitally, Tom. It just holds enough fruit for one day's picking." "That be right, mistress, and I be glad. I got the best 'ood I could. All alder 'ood, and well seasoned; and--" "You want me to do something for you, Tom?" "Well, yes, mistress. My pretty little mistress as I've knowed ever since thou couldst toddle. Thou won't be hurt like and rate me if I speak?" "No, Tom, I will not," said Mace, wondering what his request would be. "Then don't you be guiled into listening unto that fine London spark, mistress, for he's a bad 'un, fond o' wenching, and not good enough for thee."