sweetest and prettiest of all country places; and Mary was standing under the honeysuckle, looking at the blue sky and the green grass, and the flowery fruit trees so gay in the sunshine, and thinking how wrong it was in her not to be happy; when all on a sudden the good landlord advanced from the farm yard with a troubled countenance, calling for Mary and Bessy and Kate, a mess of milk, a jug of ale, and a bottle of brandy. “There’s a man lying dead or dying in the cart-house,” added he; “make haste, lasses! make haste!”
Mary, catching at the hope of life, hurried into the house to despatch some messenger for medical assistance ; his daughters flew to his assistance, and half the customers in the tap-room followed with instinctive curiosity to the cart-house.
The man was not dead; and mine host and little Kate were administering, or rather offering (for he seemed incapable either of speaking or swallowing), their various remedies.
“Who can he be, father?” said Kate; “what can have brought him here?”
“How should I know, child?” replied the man of the Tankard; “’tis a poor ragged famished wretch, as you see, who I suppose could crawl no farther. But I think he’ll live! He’s looking about him! and he seems likely to come to. Get your cousin’s smelling bottle, Bessy; and don’t crowd round him so, good (illegible text)! Why even Neptune has crept up to him, and is
