Sir Mark bowed.
“I gave him the graft to place in his stock for the choice Christmas pippins,—the Noel beauty, Sir Mark,—or he would not have had a worthy apple in his garden. Now, I prithee, come and see my bees.”
“Perhaps Sir Mark would not care to see the bees, mother,” said Mistress Anne, demurely; “he might get stung.”
“I should be too pleased to see them,” said Sir Mark, eagerly; and he was led up this long walk, down that, between the closely-cropped yew-trees and the edges of box, all kept in wondrously-regular order, and the beds lush with many-coloured, sweet-scented plants, which grew in clusters luxuriant and strong.
Sir Mark assumed a look of pleasure, and Mistress Anne was innocence itself; her eyes downcast and a trembling, hesitating expression in her countenance, though she plainly saw that Sir Mark was wearied out and longed to go in and rest.
“There is the orchard, that Sir Mark has not yet seen,” cried Dame Beckley, to her daughter’s great delight, as she hung upon the visitor’s arm.
“But, ladies, I must be thinking of my journey back to town.”
“Not without tasting our hospitality, Sir Mark,” exclaimed Dame Beckley, apparently in answer to a signal from her child, and leading the way. So he was amply feasted and petted for the time, until, mounting horse once more, he rode over the bridge, and stopped to wave his hand before the trees hid Mistress Anne and her mother from view, with Sir Thomas in his feather-stuffed breeches and cock-tail hat.