“Nay, I knew it not till you did tell me. I trow you would be better for a little good company.”
“I trow not. What is their silly chat to me?”
Here Margaret requested the father to leave them alone; and in his absence put some practical questions. Then she reflected.
“When you wake i' the morning you find yourself quiver, as one may say?”
“Nay. Ay. How knew you that?”
“Shall I dose you, or shall I but tease you a bit with my silly chat?”
“Which you will.”
“Then I will tell you a story. 'Tis about two true lovers.”
“I hate to hear of lovers,” said the girl; “nevertheless canst tell me, 'twill be less nauseous than your physic—maybe.”
Margaret then told her a love story. The maiden was a girl called Ursel, and the youth one Conrad; she an old physician's daughter, he the son of a hosier at Tergou. She told their adventures, their troubles, their sad condition. She told it from the female point of view, and in a sweet and winning and earnest voice, that by degrees soon laid hold of this sullen heart, and held it breathless; and when she broke it off her patient was much disappointed.