with her crook still in her hand, she herself went
on to guide the stranger on his way. They
arrived in due course at the hostel door, at the
sign of the Rose; but it was the Rose, mere, and
without an epithet, for mine host had wisely
omitted, in those dangerous days, to designate
the hue of that symbolic flower. The traveller
dismounted at the door, thanked and requited
his gentle guide, and signified that, as soon as
his leisure allowed, he would find the way to her
father's house. After a strict command to his
own servant and the varlet of the stable that his
horses should receive due vigilance and abundant
food, Master Bunsby at last entered the inn.
A hecatomb of wood blazed on the hearth,
shedding light as well as heat around the panelled
room; for in those times of old simplicity a
single apartment was allotted for household
purposes and for the entertainment of guests. The
traveller took an offered seat on the carved oak
settle, in the place of honour by the fire, and
looked on with interest in the homely but
original scene. At his right hand a vast oven,
with an entrance not unlike a church door, was
about to disgorge its manifold contents. Rye
loaves led the way, sweet and tasty to the final
crust (wheat was in those days a luxury unknown
in Cornwall); barley bread and oaten cakes
came forth in due procession from the steaming
cave; and, last of all, the merchant's sight and
nostrils were greeted by the arrival from the
depths of a huge and mysterious pie. The
achievements of the dame, who was both cook
and hostess in her own person, were duly and
triumphantly arrayed upon the board, and the
stranger-guest took the accustomed seat at the
right hand of "mine host." His eyes were fixed
with curiosity and interest on the hillock of
brown dough which stood before him, and reeked
like a small volcano .with steaming puffs of
savory vapour. At last, when the massive crust
which lay like a tombstone over the mighty dish
had been broken up, the pie revealed its strange
contents. Conger-eels, pilchards, and oysters,
were mingled piecemeal in the mass beneath
their intervals, slushed with melted butter and
clotted cream, and the whole well seasoned, not
without a savour of garlic, with spices, pepper,
and salt. The stranger's astonishment was
manifest in gesture and look, although he by no
means repulsed the trencher which came towards
him loaded with his bountiful share.

"Sir guest," said the host, "you doubtless
know the by-word?—'The Cornish cooks make
everything into a pie.' Our grandames say that
the devil never dared cross the Tamar, or he
would have been verily put under a crust."

Satisfied with his fare, the merchant now
inquired for the dwelling-place of his guide. It
was not far off. The parents of the shepherdess
inhabited a thatched hut in the village, with the
usual walls of beaten cob, moulded of native
clay; all within and without bespoke extreme
poverty and want, but there Master John
Bunsby soon found himself an honoured visitor
seated by the hearth, with a blazing fire of dry
gorse gathered from the moor to greet his
arrival. There, while the mother stood by her
turn or wheel, and span, and the maiden's
nimble fingers flashed her knitting needles to
and fro by the fitful light of the fire, the old
man her father and the merchant conversed
in a low voice far into the night, on a theme of
deep interest to both. The talk was of
Thomasine, the child of the house. The merchant
related his own prosperous affairs, and spake
of his goodly house in London, governed by a
thrifty and diligent wife; the household was
one of grave and decent demeanour, with good
repute in the vast city wherein dwelt the king.
He had taken an immediate interest, he declared,
in the old man's daughter, and desired to rescue
her from the life she led on the bleak unsheltered
moor. He pledged himself, if they should
consent, to convey her in safety to London, and to
place her in especial attendance on his wife;
and there, if her conduct were in unison with
her looks, he doubted not she would win many
friends, and secure a happy livelihood for the
rest of her days. He would await their
decision at the inn, where he should be detained
by business two or three days. Earnest and
anxious were their thoughts and their language
in the cottage that night and the next day.
The aspect and speech of the rich patron were
such as invited confidence and trust; but there
were the love and fear of two aged hearts to
satisfy and subdue. There was the fierce and
stubborn repugnance also of the youth, the
companion of the maid, who stood with her
under the tree upon the moor. He was her
cousin, John Dineham, of Swannacote, and
they had grown up together from childhood,
till, unconsciously to themselves, the tenderness
of kindred had strengthened into love. The
damsel herself could not conceal a natural
longing to visit the great city, where they said,
but it might be untrue, "that the houses were
stuck as close together as Wike St. Marie
Church and Tower;" but she would at all events
behold for once in her life the dwelling-place of
the king. "She would store up every coin,
and come back with money enow to buy a flock
of sheep of her own, which she and John would
tend together, as aforetime, on the moor." All
this shook the scale. When the merchant
arrived to seek their decision, it was made, and
in favour of his wish. A pillion, or padded
seat, was obtained from some neighbouring farm,
and belted behind the saddle of the merchant's
man. Thereon, with a small fardel in her hand,
which held all her worldly goods and gear,
mounted Thomasine Bonaventure, while all the
villagers came around to bid her farewell, all
but one, and it was her cousin John. He had
gone, as he had told her, to the moor, and there
among the branches of the tree which marked
the greeting- place of Master Bunsby, the
youth waited to watch her out of sight. He
lifted up his hand and waved it as she passed
on with a gesture of warning, but which she
interpreted and returned as a silent caress.

The travellers arrived at their journey's end
after being only a fortnight on the road, a speed