“Well, but we don’t want her now, do we?” cried Martha, trembling with eagerness. “I was thinkin’ maybe after all, ye’d fancy a bit of a holiday, William. Ye might drop her a bit of a line an’ say ye was goin’ to take the first honeymoon yerself. I fancy ye’d like London very well, William. You _should_ have the first turn, by right, the man bein’ master; an’ I mid be able to run up for a couple o’ days at the end o’ the week. Here’s my ticket, d’ye see; you could catch the last train, you know, an’ then, as I tell ’ee, I’d come an’ j’ine ye.” “That won’t do,” said William firmly; “nay, ’twon’t do.” “Why not?” gasped Martha. “Ye may pop that ticket in the fire,” said William, speaking slowly, and suffering his countenance to relax gradually. “’Tain’t no manner of use to I. I--be--a-goin’--for to stop--an’ keep--my--honeymoon--here--along of ’ee.” OLF AND THE LITTLE MAID. Olf drove the cows up from their pasture by the river, whistling all the way as was his wont. It was not a particularly tuneful whistle, for he had no ear for music; nevertheless, blending as it did with the morning ecstasies of a particularly early lark, with the chirp of the newly awakened nestlings in the rambling hedges, with the drone of the first bee, with the thousand and one other sounds of the summer dawn, these vacillating notes added something to the general harmony. As his troop of cows plodded tranquilly in front of him, they made green tracks in the dewy sheen of the fields, the silvery uniformity of which had hitherto been unbroken save for the print of Olf’s own footsteps, large and far apart, where he had stridden forth half an hour before to gather together his charges. Arrived at the open gate, the cows passed solemnly through, crossed the road and turned up the narrow lane which led to Farmer Inkpen’s premises, made their way to the shed at the farther end and took possession each of her own stall. The farmer had just emerged from the house, and was in the act of tying the strings of his white “pinner”; his wife and daughter, each carrying the necessary three-legged stool, were walking slowly towards the scene of their morning labours. Another female form was already ensconced on a similar stool at the very farthest end of the shed, and edged itself a little sideways as the leading cow stepped past it to her accustomed place. In a few minutes the whole herd had ranged itself, and the rhythmical splash of milk falling into the pails was soon heard. According to custom, Olf’s next proceeding should have been to “sarve” the pigs, but instead of directing his steps towards the adjacent styes, he stood embracing one of the posts which supported the shed, and gazing at his master with a vague smile on his habitually foolish face. “Well, Olf?” inquired the farmer, dropping his horny fingers from the bow which he had just succeeded in tying in the middle of his portly waist. “Well, maister!” The farmer glanced at him in amazement. “Anything wrong?”