ooed and
married the pretty daughter of a West of England squire, a Miss Vernon,
who proved as wayward as she was winsome. His wedded life was indeed so
far from being a bed of roses that he was thankful to recover his
liberty by divorcing his wife; and at the age of thirty-seven, but a few
months before this story opens, he was a free man once more.

Courts and coronets had no attractions for him. His marriage had proved
a bitter draught. He was a disappointed and disillusioned man, and he
determined that if ever he took another wife she should be "a plain,
homely, and truly virtuous maiden, in whatever sphere of life I find
her. Then I swear with King Cophetua, 'This beggar-maid shall be my
Queen.'"

Full of this romantic, if quixotic, resolve, Henry Cecil strapped a
knapsack on his back, and, staff in hand, tramped off in search of the
"beggar-maid" who was to bring him happiness at last; or, if he could
not discover her, at least to find some place of retirement where he
could lead a simple life, remote from the empty splendours and vanities
of the world to which he was born, and in which he had sought happiness
in vain.

And thus it was that in his wanderings his steps led him to the little
village in Shropshire, and to the hospitable roof of Farmer Hoggins and
his good wife, whose hearts he had won before the humble supper-table
was cleared on that stormy July night. No doubt the stranger's enjoyment
of the farmer's hospitality was enhanced by the glimpses he had caught
of his host's daughter, Sarah, a rustic beauty of seventeen summers,
with a complexion of "cream and roses," with a wealth of brown hair, and
lovely blue eyes which from time to time glanced shyly at the
good-looking stranger.

No doubt, too, it was the wish to see more of pretty Miss Sarah that was
responsible for the stranger's reluctance to resume his journey on the
following morning, which dawned bright and beautiful. So far from
showing any anxiety to continue his tramping, Cecil begged his host's
and hostess's permission to spend a few days with them. He was, he said,
a painter by profession; it would give him the greatest pleasure to
spend a few days sketching in such a beautiful district; and he would
pay well for the hospitality.

The farmer and his wife, who had already grown attached to their
pleasant guest, were by no means unwilling to accept the offer; nor did
they raise any protest when the days grew into weeks and months. Thes