“I be very glad on’t, I’m sure,” said John, still condescendingly; “of course it be easy to rear a good few pheasants if you do go in for buyin’ eggs; it bain’t so very easy to get wild duck to take to a place where they never did come afore.” “No, to be sure,” agreed Sanders affably. “It was a wonderful piece of luck, that was.” “It wasn’t luck, Maister Sanders,” said John impressively, “it was knowledge.” And he walked on, with conscious pride in every line of face and figure, leaving his successor chuckling. THE WORM THAT TURNED. “Where be goin’, William?” “Oh, I be jest steppin’ up to the Pure Drop.” And William Faithfull brought back his abstracted gaze from the horizon, where it habitually rested when it was not required for practical purposes in the exercise of his profession, and fixed itself somewhat shamefacedly on his interlocutor. He was a tall, loose-limbed man, of about forty, with an expression of countenance chronically dismal, except at such times when he was employed in some particularly genial task, such as making a coffin, or repairing the church trestles, when his neighbours averred that he became quite lively, and even whistled as he worked. His crony now returned his glance with a jocular one, and slapped his thigh ecstatically. “Well, I never seed such a chap! Faithfull by name and faithful by natur’--ah, sure you are. Why, ’tis nigh upon twelve year, bain’t it, since ye started coortin’ Martha Jesty?” “Somewhere about that,” replied William; and his countenance, already ruddy in the sunset glow, assumed a still deeper tint. “Well, I never!” returned the other with a shout of laughter. “She be gettin’ on pretty well, now--I d’ ’low she’ll be a staid woman by the time you wed her.” William shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Well,” he said, after a pause, “I d’ ’low she be worth waitin’ for. She be wonderful clever, Martha be--an’ that sprack! No, I don’t regret it--not at all I don’t.” “Bain’t the wold man anyways comin’ round?” inquired his friend with his head on one side. “No,” returned Faithfull gloomily. “Not at all. But he be so terr’ble punished, poor wold chap, one can’t expect rayson off he.” “’Tis the rheumatics, bain’t it?” was the next query in a commiserating tone. “’Tis the sky-attics,” replied the carpenter, not without a certain pride in his pseudo-father-in-law’s distinguished ailment. “There, he be so scraggled as anything--all doubled up by times. Martha do say he goes twisty-like same as a eel, when it do take en real bad.” “Lard, now!” ejaculated the other. “’E-es,” said William, shaking his head--“that’s how it do take en. So, as Martha do say, ye can’t expect the onpossible. ‘If my father,’ says she, ‘be so scram-like in his out’ard man, how can ye look for en to act straight-forrard? He’ve a-set his mind again’ the notion of us gettin’ wed, so we must just wait till he be underground. And then,’ says she, ‘I’ll not keep ’ee waitin’ a minute longer.’”