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“I prithee, granny,” he called after her, “try me with the buttercup again, and see if I be not a Lindsay.”

“Thou a Lindsay,” quoth the oldest woman contemptuously; but she was very curious, so she turned around and held a buttercup underneath the boy’s dirty chin.

“Bah,” said the oldest woman, “a Lindsay indeed! Butter hath no charm for thee, and the Lindsays, all loved it. I know, for I was nurse in the family a hundred year ago.”

Then she hobbled away faster than ever, and the poor boy kept on. Then he met the schoolmaster, who had his new poem in a great roll in his hand. “What little vagabond is this?” muttered he, gazing at him with disgust. “He hath driven a fine metaphor out of my head.”

When the boy reached the cottage where Margary and her mother lived, the dame was sitting in the door spinning, and the little girl was picking roses from a bush under the window, to fill a tall china mug which they kept on a shelf.

When Margary heard the gate click, and turning, saw the boy, she started so that she let her pinafore full of roses slip, and the flowers all fell out on the ground. Then she dropped an humble curtesy; and her mother rose and curtesied also, though she had not recognized her guest as soon as Margary.

The poor little stranger fairly wept for joy. “Ah, you remember me,” he said betwixt smiles and tears.

Then he entered the cottage, and while Margary and her mother got some refreshment ready for him, he told his pitiful story.

His father was a Lindsay, and a very rich and noble gentleman. Some little time before, he and his little son had journeyed to London, with their coach-and-four. Business having detained him longer than he had anticipated, and fearing his lady might be uneasy, he had sent his son home in advance, in the coach, with his lackeys and attendants. Everything had gone safely till after leaving this village. Some miles beyond, they had been attacked by highwaymen and robbed. The servants had either been taken prisoners or fled. The thieves had driven off with the coach-and-four, and the poor little boy had crawled back to the village.

Margary and her mother did all they could to comfort him. They prepared some hot broth for him, and opened a bottle of cowslip wine. Margary’s mother gave him some clean clothes, which had belonged to her son who had died. The little gentleman looked funny in the little rustic’s blue smock, but he was very comfortable. They fed the forlorn little dog too, and washed him till his white hair looked fluffy and silky again.

When the London mail stopped in the village, the next day, they sent a message to Lord Lindsay, and in a week’s time, he came after his son. He was a very grand gentleman; his dress was all velvet and satin, and blazing with jewels. How the villagers stared. They had flatly refused to believe that this last little stranger was the first one, and had made great fun of Margary and her mother for being so credulous. But they had not minded. They had given their guest a little pallet stuffed with down, and a pillow stuffed with rose-leaves to sleep on, and fed him with the best they had. His father, in his gratitude, offered Margary’s mother rich rewards; but she would take nothing. The little boy cried on parting with his kind friends, and Margary cried too.

“I prithee, pretty Margary, do not forget me,” said he.

And she promised she never would, and gave him a sprig of rosemary out of her garden to wear for a breastknot.

The villagers were greatly mortified when they discovered the mistake they had made. However, the oldest woman always maintained that her not having her spectacles on, when she met the stranger the second time, was the reason of her not seeing that he loved butter; and the schoolmaster gave his poetical abstraction for an excuse. Mine host of the “Boar’s Head” fairly tore his hair, and flung the pewter porringer, which he had thrown after the stranger and his dog, into the well. After that he was very careful how he turned away strangers because of their appearance. Generally he sent for the oldest woman to put her spectacles on, and try the buttercup test. Then, if she said they loved butter and were Lindsays, they were taken in and entertained royally. She generally did say they loved butter–she was so afraid of making a mistake the second time, herself; so the village-inn got to be a regular refuge for beggars, and they called it amongst themselves the “Beggars’ Rest,” instead of the “Boar’s Head.”

As for Margary, she grew up to be the pride of the village; and in time, Lord Lindsay’s son, who had always kept the sprig of rosemary, came and married her. They had a beautiful wedding; all of the villagers were invited; the bridegroom did not cherish any resentment. They danced on the green, and the Lindsay pipers played for them. The bride wore a white damask petticoat worked with pink roses, her pink satin shortgown was looped up with garlands of them, and she wore a wreath of roses on her head.

The oldest woman came to the wedding, and hobbled up to the bridegroom with a buttercup. “Thou beest a Lindsay,” said she. “Thou lovest butter, and the Lindsays all did. I know, for I was nurse in the family a hundred year ago.”

As for the schoolmaster, he was distressed. His wife had taken his poem on the stranger for papers to curl her hair on for the wedding, and he had just discovered it. He had calculated on making a present of it to the young couple.

However, he wrote another on the wedding, of which one verse is still extant, and we will give it:

“When Lindsay wedded Margary,
Merrily piped the pipers all.
The bride, the village-pride was she,
The groom, a gay gallant was he.
Merrily piped the pipers all.
When Lindsay wedded Margary.”