Betterton and he then departed, but not in company with each other.
Dinner is announced.
Adieu
LETTER XXIII
At dinner, a young farmer joined us; and I soon perceived that he and the peasant's daughter, Mary, were born for each other. They betrayed their mutual tenderness by a thousand little innocent stratagems, that passed, as they thought, unobserved.
After dinner, when Mary was about accompanying me to walk, the youth stole after us, and just as I had got into the garden, he drew her back, and I heard him kiss her. She came to me with her face a little flushed, and her ripe lips ruddier than before.
'Well, Mary,' said I, 'what was he doing to you?'
'Doing, Ma'am? Nothing, I am sure.'
'Nothing, Mary?'
'Why, Ma'am, he only wanted to be a little rude, and kiss me, I believe.'