The young man rolled over on his elbow. He wore no wig, and his lank dark hair, parted in the centre, fell on either side of his long, colourless face. His eyes were sharp and bright. “On what authority dare you make so rash a statement?” inquired he, sternly. “Take heed how you say such things, lest it rain and thunder and the wind blow, and a hurricane come upon us this afternoon, and you be prosecuted for telling a falsehood.” Abigail failed to perceive he was but jesting, and this, as well as timidity and anxiety, so wrought upon her, that without further ado she began to cry. At this the student jumped up, deeply repentant, and entreated her to rest in the shade of the old elm tree by him. He gave her his kerchief to dry her eyes, and offered an apple from his pocket. “There, there,” he said, “’twas but an idle jest. I am a bit of a merry-andrew in my way, but a harmless fellow, without a grain of malice in me. Sure the sun will shine all day when the morn is fair like this. Look up, my pretty lass. See, it still shines.” Abigail obediently blinked her tear-wet lashes at the dazzling sun, then turned her attention to the apple. She ate it with great relish, the while the student leant back against the tree, his hands in his pockets and his long legs crossed. Thus leisurely reclining, he sang a song for her pleasure, such as never before had greeted her staid, religious little ears. His voice was wondrous mellow, and its cadences flung over her a charmed spell. “It was a lover and his lass, With a hey and a ho and a hey-nonino. That o’er the green corn fields did pass In the spring-time, the only pretty ring-time When birds do sing, hey-ding-a-ding, ding, Sweet lovers love the spring.” “Beshrew me,” remarked Abigail, taking a bite of her apple, “but ye sing strange songs in Boston Town.” “Did ye ne’er hear tell of Willie Shakespeare, the play-actor,” cried the student. “I am amazed, sore amazed, at your ignorance. Many a rare rhyme has he written, God rest his bones, and betwixt you and me, I, as a Fellow of Harvard, privileged to be learned, find that there are times when his poesy rings with more relish in my ears than the psalms. I have tried my hand at verse-making with fair fortune, though I say it as should not.” Then he burst forth into another rollicking song:— “Full fathoms five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell—” “Beshrew me, sir,” interrupted Abigail, her disapproval too strong to be repressed, “but these songs are not to my liking.” She rose. “I will be pleased to have you read this description, sir,” she said, drawing a paper from her pocket tied by a string around her waist, “and tell me if ye ken aught o’ this fine gentleman.”