When Uncle Anthony entered, I noticed that he was regarded with great respect. He had evidently visited the house often, and knew the ways of the inmates. He had a seat of honour beside old Colman Killigrew too, and they conversed together in low tones, while the sons plied me with questions about my life in the South. Presently a number of the serving people came in, and with them three women-folk. They were ill-favoured, however, not like the kitchen maiden I had kept at Trevanion. Two out of the three were past mid-age, too, while the third was a large-limbed wench, angular and awkward, but evidently as strong as a man. So far, not a sign of Nancy Molesworth was visible. "Now, Uncle Anthony, a song and a story!" cried Otho Killigrew. "Shall it be a little zong or a little stoary first, then?" asked Uncle Anthony in broad Cornish. "A song first, then a story, and then a galloping song and dance to finish up with," replied Otho. Uncle Anthony swept his eyes quickly around the room; then, standing up, he, bowed towards Colman Killigrew. "I drink the 'ealth of the 'ouse," he said, bending towards the owner of Endellion. "The Killigrews 'ave been called 'A grove ov aigels' (eagles); they 'ave flied 'igh; they 'ave stood avore kings, they 'ave. Ther've bin wisht times laately, but a better day es comin'. The raace 'ave allays bin great fer lovin' and drinkin' and fightin', and their sun es risin' again. I can zee et." "May it come quickly!" cried Benet, a giant of a fellow. "There are no women to love around here--they are afraid of us; but drinking is always good; as for fighting, I long for the clash of steel." All the brothers echoed this, save Otho; he looked steadily into the huge fireplace, and spoke not. From that moment I felt sure that he was the one selected to wed Nancy Molesworth. Uncle Anthony touched his harp-strings and began to sing a plaintive song. I had heard it often before; but he sung with more feeling than did the drolls who had visited Trevanion. It was moreover peculiar to Cornwall, and, interspersed as it was by Uncle Anthony's explanations, caused even the hard-featured serving-women of Endellion to wipe their eyes. I will write it down here, for the song is being forgotten, while the fashion of receiving wandering story-tellers is fast dying out. This is how he sung it: "Cowld blaws the wind to-day, sweet'art, Cowld be the draps ov raain; The fust trew-luv that ever I 'ad, In the greenwud 'ee wos slain. "'Twas daown in the gaarden-green, sweet'art, Where you and I did waalk; The purtiest vlower that in the gaarden growed Es rinkled (withered) to a staalk. "The staalk will graw no laives, sweet'art, The vlowers will ne'er return: And now my oan love es dead and gone, Wot can I do but mourn?"