Agnes was in the garden tying up some plants, gathering the roses, and clearing away any dead leaf or bud which had faded on the bushes. Suddenly she heard a click at the garden gate, looked up, and saw a man in the royal livery she remembered so well, just walking up the gravel path to the house.
He saw her, came up, and doffed his cap.
"Are you Dame Patience Beaumont?" he asked.
"No," she answered, laughing; "I am Agnes Beaumont. Patience is my aunt. What do you want with her?"
"I have a letter for her," answered the messenger, opening a satchel which was flung over his shoulder, and drawing forth a somewhat large packet. "I was to deliver this into her own hands," he continued. "Will you call her? And then will you bid your serving wench give me some food? I have ridden hard since dawn without breaking my fast, and I am both hungry and thirsty--more thirsty than hungry," he added, with a meaning look.
"Come this way," said Agnes, and though she was clad in simple homespun, with a white kerchief folded across her bosom and an apron tied over her skirt, and though she wore thick high-heeled shoes--on which, however, were silver buckles--there was about her a something which spoke of gentle birth. She walked so erect, so easily, with such an unspeakably graceful swing.
The man watched her curiously. He was accustomed to court dames, queens, and princesses.
"If you will come this way," she said, "Martha will give you food and drink, and I will take your letter."
He followed her to the back premises, and, opening a side door which led into the kitchen, she called out:
"Here is a king's messenger, Martha, asking for Aunt Patience. He has travelled from London, and is hungry and thirsty. Will you see to him?"