He trotted off, leaving father and daughter watching the great mass of bees hanging some two feet from the ground; and soon after Tom Croftly returned with a clean hive, which he busily rubbed with sugar dissolved in beer, while he held a bee-board under his arm. "Now, mistress, art ready?" he cried. "Nay, Tom, I'll take them myself," said the founder. "We mustn't have her stung." He took the hive from his man, placed it beneath the great ball of insects, and gave the branch a quick sharp shake, with the result that nearly all fell into the hive. Another shake sent in the rest, so that it seemed as if they must be crushed or infuriated into stinging him to death; but, though some rose and buzzed around his head, he quietly placed the bee-board, handed to him by Tom, over the open hive, deftly reversed it, placed it under the shade of the tree, and left it there for the insects to settle in their new home. The bees had been left but a few minutes, when, with his face lit up with smiles, the founder exclaimed, "Why, Mace, that's been a warm job. Tom Croftly would like a mug of ale to drink success to the swarm." "And you will have one, too, under the apple-tree, father; and--just one pipe." "Get out!" cried the founder, "putting temptation in a weak man's way." But he went to the large seat under the old apple-tree, that spread its longest branches over the Pool, and had just settled himself down as Mace returned with his big silver tankard, pipe, and tobacco. "Hah! that's prime!" he said, as he seated himself in an easier position, gazing through his half-closed eyes at his luxuriant garden and the glistening surface of the Pool. "Why, here comes the parson. Hey there, Master Peasegood: just in time!" The stout clerk had seen the founder in his garden, and came panting up, his face seeming to grow broader as he neared the apple-tree. "Hah!" he sighed, shaking hands as he sat down, "what weak creatures mortals are. Here have I been murmuring against the heat, and the great burden of flesh I have to bear, and all the time there is rest and refreshment waiting to be offered to me. Mace, my darling, if I were not a parson, I'd say by the hand of an angel. Thanks, child, thanks! Cobbe, here's thy good health, man. May'st thou never be as fat as I." He drank heartily and passed the flagon to the founder, who tapped the lid up and down as he said with a look of pride: "My own barley, parson--malted myself; my own hops--grew yonder; and the ale--brewed in my own tub. Good as Dame Beckley's home-made wine, eh?" "Don't talk about it, goodman," cried the parson, with a look of disgust. "Come, thou hast raised a desire to take the taste out of my mouth that seemed to come in. Give me the flagon once again." The founder passed the ale, and the visitor took another draught of so vigorous a kind that, after the operation, Mace started off to refill the vessel.