“I bain’t one what likes to go again’ my word,” he said after a moment’s hard thinking. “I said I’d never let your husband cross my door—” Both the anxious women exclaimed simultaneously; the farmer threw out his hand to command silence. “Bide a bit,” he said, “it’ll work out all right. When I said that about your husband, Alice, I didn’t know he were going to be my carter. That’s a different story, bain’t it? I shouldn’t wonder but what my carter mid have to come in and out of the house for arders.” As Alice went quickly towards him, her eyes shining and her bosom heaving, he burst into a roar of laughter; and then, becoming suddenly serious, caught her in his arms. “There, write to your husband, love,” he said. “Write to en so soon as ye like. Tell him”—he paused, and then began to laugh again, but unsteadily, “tell him he can emmygrate back again, an’ while he be waitin’ for Jim to give up the carter’s place, we’ll make shift to spend a merry Christmas together.” FARMER BARNES’ DILEMMA FARMER BARNES stirred his tea vigorously and continuously for some minutes, raised the cup to his lips, with the spoon still in it, paused, tasted again, glancing severely over the edge at his daughter Maimie, and then remarked, in somewhat stern tones:— “You haven’t put no brandy in!” “Nay, feyther; I clean forgot to tell ye as there was scarce a drop left in bottle yesterday. I put the little drain that was left in tea-pot, but I’m afeared there weren’t enough to make mich difference.” “The tay bain’t drawed at all, lass—it makes all that difference. Ye should ha’ towd me when I was goin’ to town yesterday as bottle were nigh empty.” “Ah, that I should; but I forgot.” And Maimie wrinkled up her forehead until her eyebrows nearly touched her fair fluffy fringe. Her father set down his cup with a kind of groan, and looked at her with eyes that seemed puzzled, well nigh tearful, in spite of their severity. “Yigh, you’re a good hand at forgettin’, Maimie—ye met tak’ a prize for’t. There weren’t a bit o’ sauce wi’ the cowd pork to-day, and the taters was as hard as hard.” Maimie coloured and looked down; the farmer gazed at her sternly for a full minute, and then made a sudden lunge at the youngest child who sat next to him. “What’s wrong wi’ thy bishop, Maggie? One side is all tucked up.” “It’s tore,” announced Maggie, with a certain triumph in a statement which must call down condemnation on her elder. “Our Maimie said as she’d mend it—she’ve been sayin’ she’ll mend it all the week.” “Thou’rt a nasty little tell-tale, Maggie,” cried Maimie with some heat. “Ye never think for to remind me wi’out it’s jest at my busiest time—when I’m gettin’ dinner ready or summat.”