"Which I make so bold as to deny," said the surly man, dropping the wood on the hearth with a prodigious clatter, "'ow can any morning be lovely when there ain't no love in it—no, not so much as would fill a thimble? I say it ain't a lovely morning, not by no manner o' means, and what I says I ain't ashamed on, being a nat'rally truthful man!" With which words he sighed, kicked the fire again, and stumped out. "Our friend would seem somewhat gloomy this morning," said I. "He've been that way a fortnight now, come Satu'day," replied the slim lass, nodding. "Oh?" said I. "Yes," she continued, checking a smile, and sighing instead; "it's very sad, he've been crossed in love you see, sir." "Poor fellow!" said I, "can't you try to console him?" "Me, sir—oh no!" "And why not? I should think you might console a man for a great deal." "Why, you see, sir," said she, blushing and dimpling very prettily, "it do so happen as I'm the one as crossed him." "Ah!—I understand," said I. "I'm to be married to a farmer—down the road yonder; leastways, I haven't quite made up my mind yet." "A fine, tall fellow?" I inquired. "Yes—do 'ee know him, sir?" "With a handsome pair of black whiskers?" said I. "The very same, sir, and they do be handsome whiskers, though I do say it." "The finest I ever saw. I wish you every happiness," said I. "Thankee sir, I'm sure," said she, and, dimpling more prettily than ever, she tripped away, and left me to my repast. And when I had assuaged my hunger, I took out the pipe of Adam, the groom, the pipe shaped like a negro's head, and, calling for a paper of tobacco, I filled and lighted the pipe, and sat staring dreamily out of the window. Happy is that man who, by reason of an abundant fortune, knows not the meaning of the word hunger; but thrice happy is he who, when the hand of famine pinches, may stay his craving with such a meal as this of mine. Never before, and never since have I tasted just such eggs, and such ham—so tender! so delicate! so full of flavor! It is a memory that can never fade. Indeed, sometimes (even now), when I grow hungry, (about dinner-time) I see once more the surly-faced man, the rosy-cheeked waiting-maid, and the gloomy chamber of the "Old Cock" tavern as I saw them upon that early May morning of the year of grace 18—. So I sat, with a contented mind, smoking my pipe, and staring out at the falling summer rain. And presently, chancing to turn my eyes up the road, I beheld a chaise that galloped in a smother of mud. As I watched its rapid approach, the postilion swung his horses towards the inn, and a moment later had pulled up before the door. They had evidently travelled fast and far, for the chaise was covered with dirt; and the poor horses, in a lather of foam, hung their heads, while their flanks heaved distressfully.