The ink is faded on the pages of those calf-bound diaries, the Latin epitaph on the Elderly Gentleman's tombstone is now nearly illegible, but since he went down to Elysium alert and heedful of the changing seasons, I believe that his spirit still listens on summer eves to the blackbirds in his beloved orchard and observes with interest and curiosity each separate harebell that blossoms above his mortal remains. Charles went on his way with much the same thoughts about the Elderly Gentleman as I have set down for my own, and continued to envy his gift of youth. Presently he met Margery of Baverstock Farm. Let me remind you, she was the wench to whom Mr. Anthony Clare had paid light court back in the winter. Charles reproved him for his behaviour and apparently his friend had given up his addresses, for the milkmaid looked happy and blooming and seemed not at all displeased to giggle over a hazel wand at Mr. Charles Lovely. "Good morning, Margery." "Oh, good morning, zur," said Margery. "No longer with Farmer Hogbin?" "I be with Farmer Hogbin's brother Jahn to High Corner Farm." "And happy?" "Oh, 'ess, proud and happy." "Seen Mr. Clare lately?" Margery blushed expansively. "Oh! naw! I an't seen him since Baverstock Barn. I be courting." "Eh, indeed," said Charles, "and who is the shepherd?" "Wully Pearce." "And you'll be married soon?" "Come barley harvest--'ess." "I will dance at your wedding, Margery." "We shaant have daancing, because Wully says it leads to what oughtn't to happen." Charles made a wry face. "Going to wed a Puritan, eh?" "Nay," said the buxom maid. "He's carter to Farmer Jahn Hogbin." "Then, surely, he will let you have a merry junketing at the bride-ale." "Naw, indeed an' he wawnt, because his sister Molly when they were thrawing the stocking last year fell on her back, and Wully's fam'ly is a proud and proper fam'ly and Wully says we mun be married wi' no such nonsense." This long proclamation of propriety made Margery quite breathless, so Charles, with a bow and the present of a crown, passed on his way. Margery's case gave him more food for meditation. There was a buxom hale wench with the bloom of a peach, throwing away her ample charms upon a puritanical clod whose only ambition seemed to be the preservation of a mealy-mouthed decorum. Pshaw! such prime beauty deserved a better fate. Such a wedding as hers should have made old wives' fireside gossip for a score of years and the tale of it quickened the hearts of every lover and his lass that listened beneath the golden summer moon. Had he the control of the ceremony, by Heaven! they should have danced the dawn in, and every man and every maid should have gone to sleep with a face as pale as the morning sky. It was ridiculous that young Cupid should be breeched for the bidding of a lubberly half-baked ploughboy.