It was summer time, and Davy, though a most accomplished sleeper, found no difficulty in wakening himself with the dawn next morning. He was cutting turf in the dubs of the Curragh just then, and he had four hours of this pastime, with spells of sober meditation between, before he came up to the house for breakfast. Then as he rolled in at the porch, and stamped the water out of his long-legged boots, he saw at a glance that a thunder-cloud was brewing there. Nelly was busy at the long table before the window, laying the bowls of milk and the deep plates for the porridge. Her print frock was as sweet as the May blossom, her cheeks were nearly as red as the red rose, and like the rose her head hung down. She did not look at him as he entered. Neither did Mrs. Kinvig, who was bending over the pot swung from the hook above the fire, and working the porridge-stick round and round with unwonted energy. But Kinvig himself made up for both of them. The big man was shaving before a looking-glass propped up on the table, and against the Pilgrim’s Progress and Clark’s Commentaries. His left hand held the point of his nose aside between the tip of his thumb and first finger, while the other swept the razor through a hillock of lather and revealed a portion of a mouth twisted three-quarters across his face. But the moment he saw Davy he dropped the razor, and looked up with as much dignity as a man could get out of a countenance half covered with soap. “Come in, sir,” said he, with a pretense of great deference. “Mawther,” he said, twisting to Mrs. Kinvig, “just wipe down a chair for the gentleman.” Davy slithered into his seat. “I’m in for it,” he thought. “They’re telling me,” said Kinvig, “that there is a fortune coming at you. Aw, yes, though, and that you’re taking notions on a farmer’s girl. Respectable man, too--one of the first that’s going, with sixty acres at him and more. Amazing thick, they’re telling me. Kissing behind the door, and the like of that! The capers! It was only yesterday you came to me with nothing on your back but your father’s ould trowis, cut down at the knees.” Nelly slipped out. Her mother made a noise with the porridge-pot. Davy was silent. Kinvig walloped his razor on the strop with terrific vigor, then paused, pointed the handle in Davy’s direction, tried to curl up his lip into a withering sneer that was half lost in the lather, and said with bitter irony, “My house is too mane for you, sir. You must lave me. It isn’t the Isle of Man itself that’ll hould the likes of you.” Then Davy found his tongue. “You’re right, sir,” said he, leaping to his feet, “It’s too poor I am for your daughter, is it? Maybe I’ll be a piece richer someday, and then you’ll be a taste civiler.” “Behold ye now,” said Kinvig, “as bould as a goat! Cut your stick and quick.”