This in a thick unctuous voice, as the speaker, an enormously fat, heavy man, in rather shabby clerical habiliments, rolled up to the group, and, taking Mace in his arms, kissed her roundly on both her cheeks, while, to Sir Mark's hot indignation and surprise, the maiden laid her hands upon the parson's broad breast, and kissed him in return. "I was coming to pay my respects to you--Sir Mark Leslie, I believe." The knight bowed stiffly, with his countenance full of displeasure. "Sir Thomas Beckley told me of your illness, and begged me to call," continued Master Peasegood, whose heavy cheeks wabbled as he spoke. "Aha, that's one of the privileges of being an old, an ugly, and a horribly fat man. I may kiss my pretty little Mace here when and where I will. Master Cobbe," he continued, as he held and patted the maiden's soft white little hand, "if you do not place the key in these fingers, and bid our little blossom go fetch me a tankard of the coolest, brownest, beadiest ale in that rock-hewn cellar of thine, this man-mountain will lie down in the shade and faint. Zooks, gentlemen, but the sun is hot." He took off his broad-brimmed soft hat, and wiped his brow as he looked at both in turn, while Mace went off for the ale. "Ay, it is hot, Master Peasegood; but it will be hotter in yonder directly. Come and see the casting." "Not I," said the new-comer: "I'll go and sit in the shady room, and hold discourse with fair little Mace, and the ale. I shall stay to the next meal, so you need not hurry," he added, to Sir Mark's disgust. "You're welcome," said the founder. "How is the holy father? Why didn't you bring him?" "Out on the malignant! I've done with him," cried Master Peasegood, with much severity. "He's all purgatory and absolution and curse. Ah, talk about cursing! So Mother Goodhugh has been at work again." "Ay, with all her might." "Hah! I like being cursed," said the parson, drawing a long breath. "I've been cursed more than any man living, sir," he continued, turning to Sir Mark. "Ha, ha, ha, ha! see how I flourish upon it. I like being cursed." "But you don't like cursing," said the founder. "Nay, not at all," said the parson. "Well, I'll in to my draught of ale. Go and get you dope, and come and join me," and, saluting Sir Mark, he, to that gentleman's great relief, rolled slowly towards the porch, while the founder led his guest through the low arched doorway into the furnace-house, whose interior was now aglow. Mace awaited her stout visitor in the cool, shady parlour, with the silver flagon in her hands, then lifted the lid, and held it out to him with a smile. He took it, sniffed the aromatic scent, and raised it to his lips, with his eyes on Mace, but set the vessel down again, and took the maiden's hands.