The cottage door was open; and I guessed by the silence inside that old "Jone" had not reached home. His wife, Nanny, was a hale and cheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness, and order, and quietness, too, for she was more than seventy years of age. I found her knitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shiny old-fashioned chair, by the fireside. The carved oak clock-case in the corner was as bright as a mirror; and the solemn, authoritative ticking of the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house. But the softened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, steeping the senses in a drowsy spell. At the end of a long table under the front window, sat Nanny's granddaughter, a rosy, round-faced lass, about twelve years old. She was turning over the pictures in a well-thumbed copy of "Culpepper's Herbal." She smiled, and shut the book, but seemed unable to speak; as if the poppied enchantment that wrapt the spot had subdued her young spirit to a silence which she could not break. I do not wonder that old superstitions linger in such nooks as that. Life there is like bathing in dreams. But I saw that they had heard me coming; and when I stopt in the doorway, the old woman broke the charm by saying, "Nay sure! What; han yo getten thus far? Come in, pray yo." "Well, Nanny," said I; "where's th' owd chap?" "Eh," replied the old woman; "it's noan time for him yet. But I see," continued she, looking up at the clock, "it's gettin' further on than I thought. He'll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour--that is, if he doesn't co', an' I hope he'll not, to neet. I'll put th' kettle on. Jenny, my lass, bring him a tot o' ale." I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane-tree top, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me an old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed. "Toast a bit o' hard brade," said Nanny, "an' put it into't." I did so. The old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire; and then, settling herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange her knitting-needles. Seeing that I liked my sops, she said, "Reitch some moor cake-brade. Jenny'll toast it for yo." I thanked her, and reached down another piece; which Jenny held to the fire on a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so. "I'll tell yo what," said Nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world." "What's up now, Nanny?" replied I. "They say'n that Owd Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a cow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought?" Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our ears. Then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out a snatch of country song:-- "Owd shoon an' stockins, An' slippers at's made o' red leather! Come, Betty, wi' me, Let's shap to agree, An' hutch of a cowd neet together.