“Shall I dose you, or shall I but tease you a bit with my silly chat?” “Which you will.” “Then I will tell you a story. 'Tis about two true lovers.” “I hate to hear of lovers,” said the girl; “nevertheless canst tell me, 'twill be less nauseous than your physic--maybe.” Margaret then told her a love story. The maiden was a girl called Ursel, and the youth one Conrad; she an old physician's daughter, he the son of a hosier at Tergou. She told their adventures, their troubles, their sad condition. She told it from the female point of view, and in a sweet and winning and earnest voice, that by degrees soon laid hold of this sullen heart, and held it breathless; and when she broke it off her patient was much disappointed. “Nay, nay, I must hear the end. I will hear it.” “Ye cannot, for I know it not; none knoweth that but God.” “Ah, your Ursel was a jewel of worth,” said the girl earnestly. “Would she were here.” “Instead of her that is here?” “I say not that;” and she blushed a little. “You do but think it.” “Thought is free. Whether or no, an she were here, I'd give her a buss, poor thing.” “Then give it me, for I am she.” “Nay, nay, that I'll be sworn y' are not.” “Say not so; in very truth I am she. And prithee, sweet mistress, go not from your word, but give me the buss ye promised me, and with a good heart, for oh, my own heart lies heavy: heavy as thine, sweet mistress.” The young gentlewoman rose and put her arms round Margaret's neck and kissed her. “I am woe for you,” she sighed. “You are a good soul; you have done me good--a little.” (A gulp came in her throat.) “Come again! come again!” Margaret did come again, and talked with her, and gently, but keenly watched what topics interested her, and found there was but one. Then she said to the mayor, “I know your daughter's trouble, and 'tis curable.” “What is't? the blood?” “Nay.” “The stomach?” “Nay.” “The liver?” “Nay.” “The foul fiend?” “Nay.” “What then?” “Love.” “Love? stuff, impossible! She is but a child; she never stirs abroad unguarded. She never hath from a child.” “All the better; then we shall not have far to look for him.” “I vow not. I shall but command her to tell me the caitiff's name, that hath by magic arts ensnared her young affections.” “Oh, how foolish be the wise!” said Margaret; “what, would ye go and put her on her guard? Nay, let us work by art first; and if that fails, then 'twill still be time for violence and folly.” Margaret then with some difficulty prevailed on the mayor to take advantage of its being Saturday, and pay all his people their salaries in his daughter's presence and hers. It was done: some fifteen people entered the room, and received their pay with a kind word from their employer. Then Margaret, who had sat close to the patient all the time, rose and went out. The mayor followed her. “Sir, how call you yon black-haired lad?” “That is Ulrich, my clerk.” “Well then, 'tis he.”