"Well, the eggs are fresh laid, and you would like a rasher of bacon,
Master John? And if you will have brandy in your tea, I have some that
you left long ago in your own bottle."

Burley shook his head. "No brandy, Mrs. Goodyer; only fresh milk. I will
see whether I can yet coax Nature."

Mrs. Goodyer did not know what was meant by coaxing Nature, but she
said, "Pray do, Master John," and vanished. That day Burley went out
with his rod, and he fished hard for the one-eyed perch; but in vain.
Then he roved along the stream with his hands in his pockets, whistling.
He returned to the cottage at sunset, partook of the fare provided for
him, abstained from the brandy, and felt dreadfully low.

He called for pen, ink, and paper, and sought to write, but could not
achieve two lines. He summoned Mrs. Goodyer. "Tell your husband to come
and sit and talk."

Up came old Jacob Goodyer, and the great wit bade him tell him all the
news of the village. Jacob obeyed willingly, and Burley at last fell
asleep. The next day it was much the same, only at dinner he had up the
brandy-bottle, and finished it; and he did not have up Jacob, but he
contrived to write.

The third day it rained incessantly. "Have you no books, Mrs. Goodyer?"
asked poor John Burley.

"Oh, yes, some that the dear lady left behind her; and perhaps you would
like to look at some papers in her own writing?"

"No, not the papers,--all women scribble, and all scribble the same
things. Get me the books."

The books were brought up,--poetry and essays--John knew them by heart.
He looked out on the rain, and at evening the rain had ceased. He rushed
to his hat and fled.

"Nature, Nature!" he exclaimed, when he was out in the air and hurrying
by the dripping hedgerows, "you are not to be coaxed by me! I have
jilted you shamefully, I own it; you are a female, and unforgiving. I
don't complain. You may be very pretty, but you are the stupidest and
most tire some companion that ever I met with. Thank Heaven, I am not
married to you!"

Thus John Burley made his way into town, and paused at the first
public-house. Out of that house he came with a jovial air, and on he
strode towards the heart of London. Now he is in Leicester Square, and
he gazes on the foreigners who stalk that region, and hums a tune; and
now from yonder alley two forms emerge, and dog his careless footsteps;
now through the maze of passages towards St. Martin's he threads his
path, and, antici