“I plucked these flowers for the fairest flower that--” “Ah, that is one of Mr. Dryden's images in the reverse,” laughed Nell. “What was the name of t' other young thing?--Proserpine, that's it--who was plucking flowers, and was herself plucked. 'Snails! that's not the word--she was n't a fowl.” “'Fore Gad, Nell, I never heard that story; it sounds scandalous, so tell it us,” said Sir Charles. “What was the name of the wench, did you say?” “Her name was Nell Gwyn, and she was gathering oranges to sell in the pit of Drury Lane, when, some say Satan, and some say Sedley--the incongruity between the two accounts is too trifling to call for notice--captivated her, and she had nothing more to do with oranges or orange blossoms.” “And her life was all the merrier, as I doubt not Madame Proserpine's was when she left the vale of Enna for--well, the Pit--not at Drury Lane.” “That were a darker depth still. You 've heard the story, then. Mr. Dryden says the moral of it is that the devil has got all the pretty wenches for himself.” “Not so; he left a few for the king.” “Nay, the two are partners in the game; but the King, like t' other monarch, is not so black as he is painted.” “Nor so absolutely white as to be tasteless as the white of an egg, Nell.” “His Majesty is certainly not tasteless.” “On the contrary, he is in love with you still, Nell.” They were standing apart from the group of servants in the hall. Nell Gwyn had pretended that she was about to ascend the stairs, but loitered on the second step, with her right elbow resting on the oak banister, while she smelt at the violets with her head poised daintily, looking with eyes full of mischief and mirth at the courtier standing on the mat, the feathers of his broad-leafed hat sweeping the ground, as he swung it in making his bows. Suddenly Nell straightened herself as she looked down the hall toward the door; she started and dropped her violets. All the mischief and mirth fled from her eyes as a man was admitted, with some measure of protestation, by the porter. He was a young man with a very brown face, and he carried no sword, only the hanger of a sailor; his dress was of the plainest--neither silk nor lace entered into its manufacture. Before Sir Charles had time to turn to satisfy himself as to the identity of the man at whom Nell was gazing so eagerly, she had run down the hall, and seized the newcomer by both hands, crying: “Dick--Dick--It is you, yourself, Dick, and no ghost!” “No ghost, I dare swear, Nell,” cried the man, in a tone that made the candles in the chandelier quiver, and Sir Charles Sedley to be all but swept off his feet. “No ghost, but--O Lord, how you've grown, Nell! Why, when I burnt my last link seeing you home, you was only so high!” He put his hand within a foot of the floor.