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MASTER GALE'S DAUGHTER.
It was Sunday morning, and Tom was making his way, towards the hour of noon, to the house of the perruquier, which he had quitted some four days past, with no intention of so long an absence.
The streets were unwontedly quiet, and the cries of the apprentices at the doors of the shops were pleasantly missed.

The shops were most of them shuttered up, and the apprentices, clad in their best, were all away to some sport of their own selection in byways and alleys, or lingering about the parks with a knot of footmen and lackeys, watching the fine folk walk in and out.

For the common sort were not admitted as yet within the precincts of the parks, and even the gentlefolks had to leave their servants behind; so that it may well be guessed there was plenty of gossiping and hustling to be had at the gates, if any had a taste for it.
Tom was a far finer figure coming home than he had been in going out.

He wore a coat of azure velvet, and his vest was a perfect cataract of fine point de Venise.