SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE IX. Aunt _Joyce_ went with me yesterday to see _Isaac_. We found him of the chimney-corner, whence he seldom stirreth, being now infirm. Old _Mary_ had but then made an end of her washing, and she was a-folding the clean raiment to put by. I ran into the garden and gathered sprigs of rosemary, whereof they have a fine thriving bush. "Do tell me, _Mall_," said I, "how thou orderest matters, for to have thy rosemary thrive thus? Our bush is right stunted to compare withal." "I never did nought to it," quoth old _Mall_, somewhat crustily. She is _Jack Benn's_ sister, and truly they be something like. "Eh, Mistress _Nell_, dunna ye know?" saith _Isaac_, laughing feebly. "Th' rosemary always thrives well where th' missis is th' master. Did ye never hear yon saying?" "Shut up wi' thy foolish saws!" saith _Mall_, a-turning round on him. "He's a power of proverbs and saws, Mistress _Nell_, and he's for ever and the day after a-thrustin' of 'em in. There's no wit i' such work." "Eh, but there's a deal o' wit in some o' they old saws!" _Isaac_ makes answer, of his slow fashion. "Look ye now,--`_Brag's_ a good dog, but _Holdfast's_ better'--there's a true sayin' for ye. Then again look ye,--`He that will have a hare to breakfast must hunt o'er night.' And `A grunting horse and a groaning wife never fails their master.' Eh, but that's true!" And old _Isaac_ laughed, of his feeble fashion, yet again. "There be some men like to make groaning wives," quoth _Mall_, crustily. "They sit i' th' chimney-corner at their ease, and put ne'er a hand to the work." "That is not thy case, _Mall_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, cheerily. "So long as he were able, I am well assured _Isaac_ took his share of the work. And now ye be both infirm and stiff of the joints, what say ye to a good sharp lass that should save your old bones? I know one that should come but for her meat,--a good stirring maid that should not let the grass grow under her feet. What sayest, _Mall_?" "What, me?" saith _Mall_. "Eh, you'd best ask th' master. I am none th' master here, howso the rosemary may thrive. I would say she should ne'er earn the salt to her porridge; but I'm of no signification in this house, as I well wis. You'd best ask o' them as is." "Why, then, we mun gi'e th' porridge in," quoth _Isaac_. "Come, _Mall_, thou know'st better, lass." But old _Mary_, muttering somewhat we might not well hear, went forth to fetch in a fresh armful of linen from the hedge. "What hath put her out, _Isaac_?" asks Aunt _Joyce_. "Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, there's no telling!" saith he. "'Tis not so much as puts her in. She's easy put out, is _Mall_: and 'tis no good on earth essaying to pull her in again. You'd best let her be. She'll come in of hersen, when she's weary of threapin'." [Grumbling, fault-finding.] "I reckon thou art weary first, most times," saith _Aunt_.