—But oh! poor Humanity.—'Twas noted at the Feast, more in special by some of the chosen Ladies that thought themselves set lower than they might have been,—that poor _Tryphosa's_ Face was so tanned by Exposure all Day to Sun and Wind, as that my _Lord Mayor's_ Gown was scarce more Scarlet. And by the Space of a Fortnight or so from that Hour, 'twas so blistered and scorched that she hated to be seen, and was obliged to blanch and mollify it with Buttermilk, Cream of Almonds, and I wot not what Female Recipes. Which was the more provoking, as some of the inferior Officers of the Company called, the Day after the Feast, to know how she fared, and she was constrained to leave their Entertainment to _Tryphena_. _Miles_, who had a Glimpse of her through an upper Casement, was so offended at her Aspect that he spent no more Pence at Master _Soper's_. And by the Fortnight's End, the Matter had ceased to be talked about, and the two Girls might be seen, sewing together, and keeping an Eye to the Bridge, as contentedly and harmoniously as ever. During my Visit to my _Mother_, a new Inmate had been brought into the Family: to wit, a superior Kind of Maid for Mistress _Anne_, named _Damaris_, who had lived aforetime in the Household of Master _Hewet's_ Brother in the Country. She was a Miracle of Composedness and discreet Demeanour, which gave her the Air of being somewhat older than she really was. Mistress _Anne_ now spent the Chief of the Day with her in the Green Lattice, where _Damaris_ kept herself much reserved, sewing fine Linen, and teaching her little Charge to read. One Day, when I was moving some Laths and Cases that had stood against the Wall in _Tomkins's_ Attick till they were begrimed with Dust, I was in Amaze to behold delineated on the White-wash with black Chalk, an exact Portraicture of _Tomkins_, stooping over his Work, with every Line and Furrow of his intent, earnest Visage accurately made out. "What's this?" quod I. _Tomkins_ brake forth into Laughing. "I wist what you would come to," quod he, "when you set about moving those Laths. That's Master _Hans Holbein's_ Handywork. He must needs befoul the Wall with his Scrawling, just after it had been fresh Lime-washed. I told him 'twas a Pity it had not been scrawled first, and limewashed afterwards. So, then, in his Despite, he scored it through with that Cross; and then I set the Lumber against it, and told him Nobody should see it again." "Who is _Hans Holbein_?" quod I.