There are some folk made of very common clay, very rough pottery turned on the potter’s wheel. People who go through life, morally shouldering their brothers out of the path, as it suits them. Old Thorn was one of these. Every movement of his body was one of determined aggression. When he stepped ponderously forward, his shoulders seemed to say, “I’m coming along this way, and nobody’s not agoing to do nothin’ to stop me.” And when he looked round upon his audience after he had said anything, the lines about his mouth said, “And now anybody wots got anythin’ to say to the contrary had better keep it to hisself, that’s all.” The horses of his carrier’s van seemed to know him. They would start, lifting their heads suddenly, to get beyond his reach. And as he dealt largely in extraordinarily bronchial expletives, he had not proved a very pleasant guide. The Wheatsheaf was a different matter. Here all was cheerfulness and order. A great fire leaped and roared upon the hearth, piled bright with burning wood. A high-backed settle was turned towards the warmth, and the rosy light played upon the red-brick floor, and the whitewash. Do you know certain rooms that express as you enter, “Come in, come in, and sit down and be comfortable.” And every chair says “Welcome” to you as you arrive? Well, the kitchen of the Wheatsheaf was just such a room. And every one, from the raven who stole the bones, to the cat who frightened him away to eat them herself, knew it. Prue, the daughter of Master Larkynge, wore a white cap with a full frill to it, and an apron with astonishingly small pockets. And there was pewter to drink from, and there was a humorous Ostler, and a painted sign that creaked as it swung, showing the most prosperous sheaf of corn ever garnered. Certainly everything about it spelt hospitality. In these snug and enviable surroundings, were Robin and Mousie put to bed, in a wide four-poster with dimity curtains, and rough white sheets, that smelt of hay and lavender. And because they were excited, and not very tired, Prudence sang them to sleep. She was very pretty, and rather sentimental, so she chose a very sad song. But if you want children to go to sleep, you had best not choose a song with a story in it, because they keep awake to know what happens. But Prue didn’t know this, and being very fond of the tune, sang it to the very end. And the words of her song were these:-- “Cold blows the wind to-night, sweetheart; Cold are the drops of rain. The very first love that ever I had In greenwood he was slain. I’ll do as much for my true love As ever a maiden may, I’ll sit and watch beside his grave A twelvemonth and a day. The twelvemonth and a day being up The ghost began to speak: ‘Why sit you here by my graveside From dusk till morning break?’