a on Plymouth Hoe.

Johnnie Morgan stood watching the last wagon from his harvest field go
creaking and groaning into the rickyard in the rear of his house. It
was quite early in the afternoon, and the September sun shone with an
ardour worthy of fierce July. There was a wind, but it came dead from
the south, and its passage across the hot, moist sands of the river had
no cooling influence upon it. Johnnie mopped his brow and leant
wearily upon a pitchfork whilst a maiden ran indoors for a flagon of
cider. She came back, followed closely by a dusty stranger.

The farmer stared at the stranger. The latter surveyed Johnnie pretty
coolly, measured him from head to heel, and then took off his hat with
a sweeping forward movement of the arm. "By the look of thee thou art
Master Morgan, the yeoman of Blakeney, for whom I have hunted high and
low since noon," he exclaimed.

"I am Master Morgan," replied Johnnie; "who art thou?"

"Timothy Jeffreys, at your service. I serve the good knight, Sir
Walter Raleigh."

"Say no more until thy throat be better moistened," cried Morgan,
handing him the flagon of cider. "Let it never be said that a message
from the noble Sir Walter was spoken to me with dry lips."

Master Jeffreys took the cider off at a draught. "Passable--on a hot
day, palatable--to a man thirsty enough to lap from a wayside ditch;
but--!" he shook his head expressively, "'tis not Devonshire juice,
Master Morgan."

"True; 'tis good Glo'stershire, and we humble forest folk keep sound
heads and sound stomachs by quaffing it. I'm sorry 'tis not to your
liking; maybe I should cry 'faugh!' over your Devonshire tipple, good
sir." Johnnie was annoyed, for he prided himself on his apple-brew,
and the airs and graces of Master Jeffreys were not altogether to his
liking. "You have a message to me," he said. "No doubt you will tell
it better sitting than standing. Come into my parlour.--Meg, take this
gentleman's cloak and dust it, and bring him a brush for his boots."
The maid took the horseman's cloak, and her master led his guest
indoors. Meg was ready on the threshold to brush off the heavy coating
of red, forest dust.

"Bachelor?" asked Jeffreys when he found himself lying back in a cosy
chair, a bowl of sweet, old-time flowers adjacent to his nose.

"Bachelor!" answered Johnnie.

"Pardon my question; but this room is so trim and neat that, methought,
there must be some dainty housewife under the roo