Mother Gander stood by silent, as one properly censured. Neither did she protest when, slashing a giant gobbet off the beef, he carried it on the point of the carving-knife to Will’s mustard-strewn meat-plate, and bearing the same with its dirty knife and fork to the remotest corner of the table, fell to with audible enjoyment. “I’ll send you your milk, Deacon,” she said, turning to leave the room. “Don’t copy Jael too far,” he answered, with a grimace. “Copy who?” asked Mother Gander, mystified. “Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite—her as killed Sisera. Like me he asked for water, and, like you, she gave him milk. But she meant to nail him like a stoat.” “Me murder you!” said Mother Gander with a scandalized air. But she was clearly impressed by his erudition. “’Tis onny my fun. But you look up Judges, chapter fower. They’re beacons to us—they old Hebrews and Hebrewesses—beacons.” “Would you rather not have the milk?” Mother Gander was still a little puzzled. “’Tain’t for me to refuse a sister’s kindness. And the best way to repay her is to take it with rum. Bein’ as there’s a wisitor, the leetlest drop o’ rum in it, to show Oi don’t howd with your rebukers in that regard. Send the bottle separate, to be plain to all beholders.” “And send me another pint of porter, please,” added Will. He felt he must justify his stay even as the Deacon must justify his drink. The ecclesiastical preferment that had come to Elder Mawhood amused him—his boyish resentment faded suddenly, and the respectable rat-catcher—after all, the motor-impulse of his fortunes—now loomed through a cloud of kindly indulgence; even touched with the glamour of early memories, with the magic of those far-off winters whose approach had brought the expert to Frog Farm, as surely as it brought in from the hedges the creatures against whom he waged cunning battle in the war-zone of the barns and outbuildings. How thrilled the boy had been by the great traps and the pack of ferrets—nay, had not the strange old man seemed himself a larger ferret, with his tight-fitting moleskins, sidling motions, and curiously small shining eyes? What a joy his annual visit—with what fearful interest the bunch of children had listened to the annual contract, made for gross sums, or for particular buildings, sometimes calculated per tail of rats! The Elder had always made a point of the cost of the shoe-leather involved in the isolation of Frog Farm. Aniseed, Will suddenly remembered, had played a considerable part in beguiling the victims, and the scent of it, coming up again,—dream-whiff or reality—was now incongruously mingled with a flavour of youth and innocence, touching our rustic Ulysses almost to tears. He wheeled his arm-chair window-wards to hide his emotion, and puffed into the courtyard. “Oi don’t object to your smokin’,” mumbled the Deacon.