I gits five shillin', an' the chymist gits a guinea.

_That's_ all right! _I_ don't mind! I on'y gathers,--the chymist, 'e's got to infuse the yerb, distil an' bottle it.

I'm paid my price, an 'e's paid 'is.

All's fair in love an' war!" He trudged on, his footsteps now rendered almost noiseless by the thick grass on which he trod.

The heavy dew sparkled on every blade, and here and there the pale green twinkle of a glow-worm shone like a jewel dropped from a lady's gown.