's house in the village, and that one of the maids there
was down in the small-pox.

The blacksmith, besides his forge and irons for horses, had an ale-house
for men, which his wife kept, and his company sat on benches before the
inn-door, looking at the smithy while they drank their beer. Now,
there was a pretty girl at this inn, the landlord's men called Nancy
Sievewright, a bouncing, fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as
the hollyhocks over the pales of the garden behind the inn. At this time
Harry Esmond was a lad of sixteen, and somehow in his walks and rambles
it often happened that he fell in with Nancy Sievewright's bonny face;
if he did not want something done at the blacksmith's he would go and
drink ale at the "Three Castles," or find some pretext for seeing this
poor Nancy. Poor thing, Harry meant or imagined no harm; and she, no
doubt, as little, but the truth is they were always meeting--in the
lanes, or by the brook, or at the garden-palings, or about Castlewood:
it was, "Lord, Mr. Henry!" and "how do you do, Nancy?" many and many a
time in the week. 'Tis surprising the magnetic attraction which draws
people together from ever so far. I blush as I think of poor Nancy now,
in a red bodice and buxom purple cheeks and a canvas petticoat; and that
I devised schemes, and set traps, and made speeches in my heart, which
I seldom had courage to say when in presence of that humble enchantress,
who knew nothing beyond milking a cow, and opened her black eyes with
wonder when I made one of my fine speeches out of Waller or Ovid. Poor
Nancy! from the midst of far-off years thine honest country face beams
out; and I remember thy kind voice as if I had heard it yesterday.

When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the small-pox was at the "Three
Castles," whither a tramper, it was said, had brought the malady, Henry
Esmond's first thought was of alarm for poor Nancy, and then of shame
and disquiet for the Castlewood family, lest he might have brought this
infection; for the truth is that Mr. Harry had been sitting in a back
room for an hour that day, where Nancy Sievewright was with a little
brother who complained of headache, and was lying stupefied and crying,
either in a chair by the corner of the fire, or in Nancy's lap, or on
mine.

Little Lady Beatrix screamed out at Dr. Tusher's news; and my lord cried
out, "God bless me!" He was a brave man, and not afraid of death in
any shape but this. He was very pro