“You brewed good ale from the grown wheat the first time,” said the squire, not deeming it necessary to notice her observations. “Good! was it?” retorts the girl struggling between respect for her master and contempt for his taste, in the matter of malt drink; “good was it! I tell you what master, you are a good master, and I have nothing to say against mistress, for it would not be decent, but you never tasted beer like ours at Newcastle Emlyn! the real hearty _cwrw da_! which I could make you to-morrow, if you would give me good malt and hops, and let it stand long enough untapped.” “But let me ask you my good woman,” said the squire, “what is the reason that your two last brewings were so far inferior to the first, when you had the same materials to work on?” “’Twas better sir! ten times better! the first would have turned the devil’s stomach, had he known what was in it.” “Explain yourself,” said the squire, surprized. “I will sir, if I was to be hanged for it,” cried the girl in a tone of confidence; “it seems the rats love beer as well as any christian folks, and can get drunk and die in drink, as a warning to all sober-minded rats; but that is neither here nor there, and I hate to tell a rigmarole story; the long and short of it is, that when I came to wash out the barrels after the first brewing, I found three rats in one, and two in the other.” “You found what?” asked the squire and his lady at the same time. “I found three rats sir, that had burst themselves with drinking beer, and afterwards fell in and were drowned—they were then putrid, and it was that, it seems, that made the ale so palatable; there were no dead animals in the last brewing, but if I knew your taste before, I would have killed a couple of cats, to please you.” This explanation excited a titter among the girls, and a loud laugh from the squire, while the lady evinced the shock which her delicacy had sustained, by making wry faces, and snuffing violently at her smelling bottle, to avoid fainting. The squire then good humoredly addressed the girl, “now Cardy, you are perfectly right in the praise you bestow on your own country ale, and I promise you shall have the best of malt and hops for your next attempt, when I expect it to be equal to the best _cwrw da_ of Newcastle Emlyn—and, do you hear? we shall dispense with either rats or cats in it for the future.” This amicable settlement of differences set every one in good humour, except the haughty mistress, who embittered with her double defeat, retired in gloom, while her husband went to give audience to Jack o Sîr Gâr. Cardy stayed behind a full quarter of an hour longer, to edify the servants while treating, in her cackling style, of the extraordinary merits of the fat ale of Newcastle Emlyn. CHAP. VII.