"A billet, sayest thou?--eh!--who can it be? What! It is--go away, my good Marian; I cannot--oh! when will my poor heart----'_Waft a cargo of love to thy bosom._' '_Melt in the furnace._' Dear, delightful passion! How pure! Just like mine own, I declare. '_Harder than adamant._' Nay, thou wrongest me. Prithee, Marian, who--where is he?" "A trusty messenger is below." She dropped a handsome curtsy. "Give me my tablets and my writing-stool. O Marian! little did I think of this yesterday. When I was telling thee of--of--oh, I am distraught!" She commenced a score of times ere something in the shape of a communication could be despatched. "There--there; let it be conveyed quick. Nay, I will see him myself. Lead me to him, girl. I will say how--and yet, this may look too bold and unmaidenly. Take it, good girl, and say--what thou thinkest best." Lightly did the laughing maiden trip through the great hall into the buttery, where Hodge was ambushed along with a huge pie, fast lessening under his inspection. Her intention was not to have given him the billet, but she was suddenly alarmed at the approach of Mistress Bridget. Fearful lest the deception might be discovered, she hastily gave Hodge the precious deposit, trusting to some favourable opportunity when she might extract the letter from his pouch. An occasion shortly occurred, and Hodge was despatched, as we have seen, billetless, and unconscious of his loss. The lover was sore puzzled how to proceed. It was possible--nay, more than probable--that the message might have appointed a meeting; or twenty other matters, which he was utterly unable to conjecture, woman's brain being so fertile in expedients; and if he obeyed not her injunctions it might be construed amiss, and unavoidably prove detrimental to his suit. Should he send back the messenger? She would perhaps laugh at him for his pains; and he was too much afraid of her caprice to peril his adventure on this issue. A happy thought crossed his brain; he capered about his little chamber; and could hardly govern himself as the brilliant conception blazed forth on his imagination. This bright phantasy was to be embodied in the shape of a serenade. It would be more in the romantic way of making love--would stimulate her passions--powerfully enlist her feelings in his favour, and doubtless bring on something like an appointment, or a permission, at any rate, to use a freer intercourse. "To-morrow night," said he, rubbing his hands and stroking his soft round chin, for be it understood, gentle reader, the youth was of a tender and fair complexion, with little beard, save a slight blush on his upper lip. He was not ill-favoured, but there was altogether something boyish and effeminate throughout his appearance, which seemed not of the hue to win a lady's love. He could twang the guitar, and had at times made scraps of verse, which he trolled to many a damsel's ear, but to little purpose hitherto.