recipes, cookery-books, and some too on surgery and medicine, as practised by the Ladies Bountiful of the Elizabethan age, for which an antiquarian would nowadays give an eye or a hand.
Gentle half-foolish Philip Feltram would tell the story of his wrongs, and weep and wish he was dead; and kind Mrs.Julaper, who remembered him a child, would comfort him with cold pie and cherry-brandy, or a cup of coffee, or some little dainty.
"O, ma'am, I'm tired of my life.

What's the good of living, if a poor devil is never let alone, and called worse names than a dog?
Would not it be better, Mrs.Julaper, to be dead?
Wouldn't it be better, ma'am?
I think so; I think it night and day.

I'm always thinking the same thing.
I don't care, I'll just tell him what I think, and have it off my mind.
I'll tell him I can't live and bear it longer." "There now, don't you be frettin'; but just sip this, and remember you're not to judge a friend by a wry word.

He does not mean it, not he.
They all had a rough side to their tongue now and again; but no one minded that.

I don't, nor you needn't, no more than other folk; for the tongue, be it never so bitin', it can't draw blood, mind ye, and hard words break no bones; and I'll make a cup o' tea--ye like a cup o' tea--and we'll take a cup together, and ye'll chirp up a bit, and see how pleasant and ruddy the sun shines on the lake this evening." She was patting him gently on the shoulder, as she stood slim and stiff in her dark silk by his chair, and her rosy little face smiled down on him.