“Ah!” said another old man, shaking his head. “Snow now isn’t like the snow as used to be. It’s not so white, I know, for one thing—” “Mayhap, daddy, your eyes arn’t so good?” said a good-looking young man who was the very picture of health and strength. “I can tell you,” said the old man, with an air of indignation, “that in my days—that’s my young days, everything was different, snow and all.” “You may say that,” remarked another. “When now shall we ever hear of a storm, such as that happened only ten years ago, and a matter of three months or thereby—eh?” “You mean the time when Savage Britton had part of his old Smithy burnt?” “The fire wasn’t near his Smithy,” said the old man; “I saw it, and I saw the mad fellow rush out with the child too.” “We shall never know the rights of that business,” remarked another, “and since Frank Hartleton has gone to London, there’s no chance neither.” “And you know who has shut himself up more than ever since.” “The savage?” “No—not he—some one else.” “The squire?” said the young farmer. “I mention no names,” said the old man, “mind I didn’t say the squire shuts himself up. Did I, Tom?” “Not at all,” replied Tom. “Any ale wanted? Keep the pot a bilin.” “And if you did say the squire shuts himself up,” cried the young farmer, “what then? We all know he shuts himself up, and room after room has been locked up, in Learmont house, till it’s a misery to look at the dirty windows.” “That may be,” said the old man, “but mind I didn’t say so. Is it snowing still, Tom?” “I believe ye,” cried Tom, pulling aside a little bit of red baize that hung by the window, as fast as ever. “It is a coming now.” And so it was, for the large flakes of snow fell against the window with faint blows, and as far as the eye could reach was one uninterrupted field of pure white which lent an unnatural colour to the night. “I think we may venture to remark,” said a little man who had hitherto sat silent in a corner next the fire-place, “that there won’t be many out to-night that have got a chimney-corner to crawl to.” “That’s uncommonly true,” replied several in a breath. “Hark!” cried the young farmer, “there’s the clank of Britton’s hammer.” “Aye, aye,” said the old man, who was so careful of speech. “In the worst weather he works hardest. I hear it—I hear it—and, friends, mind, I say nothing, but where does his work come from and when is it done, where does it go to—eh?” “That’s the thing!” cried several. “You’ve hit the right nail on the head.” “Mind, I said nothing—nothing at all,” cried the old man, resuming his pipe, with a self-satisfied air. “I’ll say something, though,” cried the young farmer, “my opinion is, that he forges chains fer old Nick, and some day you’ll hear—” Several heavy blows upon the outer door of the ale house, which was closed to keep out the snow, stopped the young farmer in his speech and attracted the attention of the whole company.