Of them all, only M'Adam sat silent. He talked to no man, and you may be sure no one talked to him. His hand crept oftener to his glass than plate, till the sallow face began to flush, and the dim eyes to grow unnaturally bright. Toward the end of the meal there was loud tapping on the table, calls for silence, and men pushed back their chairs. The squire was on his feet to make his annual speech. He started by telling them how glad he was to see them there. He made an allusion to Owd Bob and the Shepherds' Trophy which was heartily applauded. He touched on the Black Killer, and said he had a remedy to propose: that Th' Owd Un should be set upon the criminal's track--a suggestion which was received with enthusiasm, while M'Adam's cackling laugh could be heard high above the rest. From that he dwelt upon the existing condition of agriculture, the depression in which he attributed to the late Radical Government. He said that now with the Conservatives in office, and a ministry composed of “honorable men and gentlemen,” he felt convinced that things would brighten. The Radicals' one ambition was to set class against class, landlord against tenant. Well, during the last five hundred years, the Sylvesters had rarely been--he was sorry to have to confess it--good men (laughter and dissent); but he never yet heard of the Sylvester--though he shouldn't say it--who was a bad landlord (loud applause). This was a free country, and any tenant of his who was not content (a voice, “'Oo says we bain't?”)--“thank you, thank you!”--well, there was room for him outside. (Cheers.) He thanked God from the bottom of his heart that, during the forty years he had been responsible for the March Mere Estate, there had never been any friction between him and his people (cheers), and he didn't think there ever would be. (Loud cheers.) “Thank you, thank you!” And his motto was, “Shun a Radical as you do the devil!”--and he was very glad to see them all there--very glad; and he wished to give them a toast, “The Queen! God bless her!” and--wait a minute!--with her Majesty's name to couple--he was sure that gracious lady would wish it--that of “Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!” Then he sat down abruptly amid thundering applause. The toasts duly honoured, James Moore, by prescriptive right as Master of Kenmuir, rose to answer. He began by saying that he spoke “as representing all the tenants,”--but he was interrupted. “Na,” came a shrill voice from half-way down the table. “Yell except me, James Moore. I'd as lief be represented by Judas!” There were cries of “Hold ye gab, little mon!” and the squire's voice, “That'll do, Mr. M'Adam!” The little man restrained his tongue, but his eyes gleamed like a ferret's; and the Master continued his speech.