“Well,” said she, “I trow nothing could make you happier.”
“Nothing, except to be there.”
“Well, that is a pity, for I thought to make you a little happier with a letter from Holland.”
“A letter? for me? where? how? who brought it?—Oh, dame!”
“A stranger; a painter, with a reddish face and an outlandish name; Anselmin, I trow.”
“Hans Memling! a friend of mine. God bless him!”
“Ay, that is it: Anselmin. He could scarce speak a word, but a had the wit to name thee; and a puts the letter down, and a nods and smiles, and I nods and smiles, and gives him a pint o' wine, and it went down him like a spoonful.”
“That is Hans, honest Hans. Oh, dame, I am in luck to-day; but I deserve it. For, I care not if I tell you, I have just overcome a great temptation for dear Margaret's sake.”
“Who is she?”
“Nay, I'd have my tongue cut out sooner than betray her, but oh, it was a temptation. Gratitude pushing me wrong, Beauty almost divine pulling me wrong: curses, reproaches, and hardest of all to resist, gentle tears from eyes used to command. Sure some saint helped me Anthony belike. But my reward is come.”