“Quick, Polly, my hat and cloak!” cried Mistress Anne, running up to her room, where her little handmaiden was seated at work. “Then there is some truth in the old woman’s philtres after all?”
“Yes, mistress, if you mean Mother Goodhugh’s,” cried the girl, who had caught the last words.
“Why? How? What do you know?” cried Mistress Anne.
“Why, mistress, everybody in love goes to her to get her help.”
“And who told thee I was in love, thou saucy slut?” cried Anne angrily.
“My handsome mistress’s beautiful cheeks, that turned red when she knew Sir Mark Leslie was coming, and her red, ripe lips, that spake his name. La, mistress, don’t be angry with little me, for wishing to see thee with a handsome, gallant husband. But I shouldn’t like though for him to be so fond of Sweet Mace down at the forge.”
“And who dare say he is?” cried Mistress Anne, angrily.
“They say he be, mistress, and that he pooked Captain Culverin about her, and the captain was nearly drowned as well.”
“Who told thee all this?” cried Anne.
“Janet, who lives there, helped the news to me,” replied the girl; “but Sir Mark would never bemean himself to marry such a creature as that Mistress Mace.”