On all this the good lady was very copious, and took up the remaining intervals of filling tea, to describe its excellencies to Harley; adding, that she intended this as a present for his wife, when he should get one.  He sighed and looked foolish, and commending the serenity of the day, walked out into the garden.

He sat down on a little seat which commanded an extensive prospect round the house.  He leaned on his hand, and scored the ground with his stick:  ‘Miss Walton married!’ said he; but what is that to me?  May she be happy! her virtues deserve it; to me her marriage is otherwise indifferent:  I had romantic dreams? they are fled?—­it is perfectly indifferent.”

Just at that moment he saw a servant with a knot of ribbons in his hat go into the house.  His cheeks grew flushed at the sight!  He kept his eye fixed for some time on the door by which he had entered, then starting to his feet, hastily followed him.

When he approached the door of the kitchen where he supposed the man had entered, his heart throbbed so violently, that when he would have called Peter, his voice failed in the attempt.  He stood a moment listening in this breathless state of palpitation:  Peter came out by chance.  “Did your honour want any thing?”—­“Where is the servant that came just now from Mr. Walton’s?”

“From Mr. Walton’s, sir! there is none of his servants here that I know of.”—­“Nor of Sir Harry Benson’s?”—­He did not wait for an answer; but having by this time observed the hat with its parti-coloured ornament hanging on a peg near the door, he pressed forwards into the kitchen, and addressing himself to a stranger whom he saw there, asked him, with no small tremor in his voice, “If he had any commands for him?” The man looked silly, and said, “That he had nothing to trouble his honour with.”—­“Are not you a servant of Sir Harry Benson’s?”—­“No, sir.”—­“You’ll pardon me, young man; I judged by the favour in your hat.”—­“Sir, I’m his majesty’s servant, God bless him! and these favours we always wear when we are recruiting.”—­“Recruiting!” his eyes glistened at the word:  he seized the soldier’s hand, and shaking it violently, ordered Peter to fetch a bottle of his aunt’s best dram.  The bottle was brought:  “You shall drink the king’s health,” said Harley, “in a bumper.”—­ “The king and your honour.”—­“Nay, you shall drink the king’s health by itself; you may drink mine in another.”  Peter looked in his master’s face, and filled with some little reluctance.  “Now to your mistress,” said Harley; “every soldier has a mistress.”  The man excused himself—­“To your mistress! you cannot refuse it.”  ’Twas Mrs. Margery’s best dram!  Peter stood with the bottle a little inclined, but not so as to discharge a drop of its contents:  “Fill it, Peter,” said his master, “fill it to the brim.”  Peter filled it; and the soldier having named Suky Simpson, dispatched it in a twinkling.  “Thou art an honest fellow,” said Harley, “and I love thee;” and shaking his hand again, desired Peter to make him his guest at dinner, and walked up into his room with a pace much quicker and more springy than usual.