“Ah, Sir!” said he, with a half sigh, “a pretty river this, don’t mean to say it is not; but the river Lea for my money. You know the Lea?--not a morning’s walk from Lunnun. Mary Gibson, my first sweetheart, lived by the bridge,--caught such a trout there by the by!--had beautiful eyes--black, round as a cherry--five feet eight without shoes--might have listed in the forty-second.” “Who, Bunting!” said Walter smiling, “the lady or the trout?” “Augh!--baugh!--what? Oh, laughing at me, your honour, you’re welcome, Sir. Love’s a silly thing--know the world now--have not fallen in love these ten years. I doubt--no offence, Sir, no offence--I doubt whether your honour and Miss Ellinor can say as much.” “I and Miss Ellinor!--you forge yourself strangely, Bunting,” said Walter, colouring with anger. “Beg pardon, Sir, beg pardon--rough soldier--lived away from the world so long, words slipped out of my mouth--absent without leave.” “But why,” said Walter, smothering or conquering his vexation,--“why couple me with Miss Ellinor? Did you imagine that we,--we were in love with each other?” “Indeed, Sir, and if I did, ‘tis no more than my neighbours imagine too.” “Humph! your neighbours are very silly, then, and very wrong.” “Beg pardon, Sir, again--always getting askew. Indeed some did say it was Miss Madeline, but I says,--says I,--‘No! I’m a man of the world--see through a millstone; Miss Madeline’s too easy like; Miss Nelly blushes when he speaks; scarlet is love’s regimentals--it was ours in the forty-second, edged with yellow--pepper and salt pantaloons! For my part I think,--but I’ve no business to think, howsomever--baugh!” “Pray what do you think, Mr. Bunting? Why do you hesitate?” “‘Fraid of offence--but I do think that Master Aram--your honour understands--howsomever Squire’s daughter too great a match for such as he!” Walter did not answer; and the garrulous old soldier, who had been the young man’s playmate and companion since Walter was a boy; and was therefore accustomed to the familiarity with which he now spoke, continued, mingling with his abrupt prolixity an occasional shrewdness of observation, which shewed that he was no inattentive commentator on the little and quiet world around him. “Free to confess, Squire Walter, that I don’t quite like this larned man, as much as the rest of ‘em--something queer about him--can’t see to the bottom of him--don’t think he’s quite so meek and lamb-like as he seems:--once saw a calm dead pool in foren parts--peered down into it--by little and little, my eye got used to it--saw something dark at the bottom--stared and stared--by Jupiter--a great big alligator!--walked off immediately--never liked quiet pools since--augh, no!” “An argument against quiet pools, perhaps, Bunting; but scarcely against quiet people.”