‘Christmas comes but once a year,’ remarked Mr. Burge, somewhat thickly. ‘’T is a joyful season—a season as fills a man’s ’eart with ’ope and ’appiness.’ This observation appearing to call for no rejoinder, Rosalie let it pass unnoticed except by a slight quickening of her pace; to no purpose, however, for her unwelcome companion kept by her side. ‘Christmas for ever!’ he ejaculated huskily, with an appropriate flourish of his hat. Instead of restoring it to its place after this sudden display of enthusiasm, he continued to wave it uncertainly, not over his own head, but over Rosalie’s, leering the while in a manner which materially increased her discomposure. All at once she saw that a sprig of mistletoe was tucked into the band of Mr. Burge’s head-gear, and almost at the moment she made this discovery he lurched forward, so as to bar her progress, and bent his face towards hers. ‘How dare you!’ cried Rosalie, thrusting him from her with a vigorous push; then, as he momentarily lost his equilibrium and staggered backwards against the hedge, she fairly took to her heels and fled from him at full speed, not towards her own home, but to Isaac Sharpe’s premises. ‘O Mr. Sharpe!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘Oh, oh, save me! He’s after me!’ ‘Who’s arter you, my dear? Why, you be a-shakin’ same as an aspen-tree. What in the name o’ Goodness has put you in such a state?’ ‘Oh, it’s—it’s that dreadful Andrew Burge. He overtook me on the downs and tried to kiss me. I think he’s tipsy, and I know he’s running after me.’ ‘Nay now, my dear, don’t ’ee take on so. He’ll not hurt ye here—I’ll see to that. Dang his impidence! Tried to kiss ye, did he? That chap needs to be taught his place.’ ‘I’m sure he’s coming down the path now,’ cried Rosalie, wringing her hands. ‘Oh, dear, if he does n’t come here I dare say he’ll go back to the farm, and I shall find him there when I go home.’ ‘Now, don’t ’ee go on shakin’ and cryin’ so. Don’t ye be so excited, Rosalie,’ said Isaac, who was himself very red in the face and violently perturbed. ‘Come, I’ll walk home along of ye, and if I do find him there I’ll settle him—leastways, if you’ll give me leave. Ye don’t want to have nothin’ more to say to ’en, do ye? Very well, then, ’t will be easy enough to get rid of ’en.’ So Isaac Sharpe, without pausing to pull a coat over his smock-frock, duly escorted Mrs. Fiander across the downs and home by the short cut; and, as Rosalie had surmised, Susan greeted them on the threshold with the pleasing information that Mr. Burge was waiting for her in the parlour. ‘Very good,’ said Isaac. ‘Leave ’en to me, my dear. Jist you go to the dairy, or up to your room, or anywheres ye like out o’ the road. I’ll not be very slack in getting through wi’ this here job.’ He watched her until she had disappeared from view, and then suddenly throwing open the parlour door shouted in stentorian tones to its solitary occupant: ‘Now then, you must get out o’ this!’