The Lubber-fiend appeared next to a boy who was loitering at a late hour somewhere near the little ladies' kitchen-garden, and whom he pursued and pelted with mud till the lad nearly lost his wits with terror. (It was the same boy who was put in the lock-up in the autumn for stealing Farmer Mangel's Siberian crabs.) For this trick, however, the rough elf atoned by leaving three pecks of newly-gathered fruit in the kitchen the following morning. Never had there been such a preserving season at Lingborough within the memory of Thomasina. The truth is, hobgoblins, from Puck to Will-o'-the-wisp, are apt to play practical jokes and knock people about whom they meet after sunset. A dozen tales of such were rife, and folks were more amused than amazed by Lob Lie-by-the-fire's next prank. There was an aged pauper who lived on the charity of the little ladies, and whom it was Miss Betty's practice to employ to do light weeding in the fields for heavy wages. This venerable person was toddling to his home in the gloaming with a barrow load of Miss Betty's new potatoes, dexterously hidden by an upper sprinkling of groundsel and hemlock, when the Lubber-fiend sprang out from behind an elder-bush, ran at the old man with his black head, and knocked him, heels uppermost, into the ditch. The wheelbarrow was afterwards found in Miss Betty's farmyard, quite empty. And when the cowherd (who had his own opinion of the aged pauper, and it was a very poor one) went that evening to drink Lob Lie-by-the-fire's health from a bottle he kept in the harness room window, he was nearly choked with the contents, which had turned into salt and water, as fairy jewels turn to withered leaves. But luck had come to Lingborough. There had not been such crops for twice seven years past. The lay-away hens' eggs were brought regularly to the kitchen. The ducklings were not eaten by rats. No fowls were stolen. The tub of pig-meal lasted three times as long as usual. The cart-wheels and gate-hinges were oiled by unseen fingers. The mushrooms in the croft gathered themselves and down on a dish in the larder. It is by small savings that a farm thrives, and Miss Betty's farm throve. Everybody worked with more alacrity. Annie the lass said the butter came in a way that made it a pleasure to churn. The neighbours knew even more than those on the spot. They said--That since Lob came back to Lingborough the hens laid eggs as large as turkeys' eggs, and the turkeys' eggs were--oh, you wouldn't believe the size! That the cows gave nothing but cream, and that Thomasina skimmed butter off it as less lucky folk skim cream from milk. That her cheeses were as rich as butter. That she sold all she made, for Lob took the fairy butter from the old trees in the avenue, and made it up into pats for Miss Betty's table. That if you bought Lingborough turnips, you might feed your cows on them all the winter and the milk would be as sweet as new-mown hay.