‘Ah, he were a good beast,’ remarked the farmer; ‘’t is a pity ye did let ’en slip. ’T was wi’ drivin’ fast down-hill, my nevvy here d’ tell me, an’ that’s what he’ve never been used to. Ye should have druv ’en more carefully, my dear.’ Rosalie thought of the cause of her unusual haste on the previous day; it was her anxiety to escape from the too evident admiration of the grey eyes which were now bent on her with so different an expression. The memory confused her; the contrast stung her; she answered sharply, and with assumed indifference: ‘One cannot crawl down every slope to suit the convenience of a worn-out animal!’ ‘He bain’t worn-out, though,’ returned her future husband, who invariably took things literally. ‘Nay, I should say he’d last a good few years yet, though he be past ’ard work. ’Lias al’ays used ’en gentle; ’t is wonderful how far that’ll go both with man an’ beast. “Fair an’ soft do go far in a day,” the sayin’ goes. Fair an’ soft—ah, ’t is trew, ’t is trew!’ Rosalie bent her head over the vat in silence, her face averted, so that her visitors could see only the outline of her cheek, the exquisite curves of ear and neck. ‘Fair and soft,’ muttered Richard to himself. ‘Fair and soft enough to look at, but her heart is as the nether millstone!’ His uncle gazed reproachfully at him; he was proud of his travelled and book-learned nephew, and had eagerly looked forward to the impression he was sure to produce on ‘Mrs. F.,’ who had also been highly educated, and was considered an authority on matters appertaining to culture—and he was not showing off at all! He was standing there, mum-chance, as stupid as any other body might be. He gave him another admonitory nudge and remarked: ‘Richard, that’s my nevvy, did quite take me by surprise last night. I was n’t expectin’ to see ’en at all. To tell the trewth I had no kind o’ notion o’ where he mid be. He had n’t wrote—How long were it since you’ve a-wrote me last, Richard?’ inquired Isaac, driving home the query with his elbow, and again frowning and winking. ‘I don’t know,’ answered his nephew, in muffled tones. ‘A long time, I’m afraid; but, you see, you never wrote to me,’ he added with a laugh. ‘That be different, my boy,’ returned the farmer seriously. ‘There was reasons why I did n’t write, Richard. I never was a writin’ man. Lard, no,’—and here he relaxed, and uttered a jolly laugh,—‘’t is as much as I can do to put my name to a receipt, an’ then Bithey d’ do it for I, and I do jist stick my mark under it. Nay, Richard, I never was one for writing much—nay, I was n’t.’ He continued to roll his shoulders and to chuckle ‘nay’ meditatively at intervals, but his eyes were meanwhile fixed appealingly upon the face of Richard, who remained obstinately dumb. Presently their hostess came to his assistance.