“There’s a tale against Denny that never quite goes out of fashion. When he was a lad he was out with a pretty cousin from Lancaster. After a long while of saying nothing at all, he gives a great sigh. ‘Why, whatever’s the matter?’ says the cousin, alarmed. ‘Nay, I was nobbut thinking,’ says Denny, very dismal. Well, then, the cousin offers him a penny for his thoughts, but Denny was terribly shy-like, and wouldn’t out with them. ‘Eh, well,’ he says at last, ‘I was just thinking as I’d never furgit this here walk with thee!’ Cousin fluttered, of course. ‘Why, I’m sure you’re very kind, but you sound terribly serious about it!’ ‘Ay,’ says Denny, ‘I reckon I is. I’se gitten on a paar o’ Brother Steve’s boots, an’ they’ve scratted aw t’ skin off my heels!’ I say--can’t you smother Knewstubb with another microbe or two?” (The boot story made him think of Brack’s parting speech. He wondered what had brought the tale to mind.) “Yes, Denny’s a laddie! He’s framed a bit differently with the lasses, since then! But he’s a right good sort, taken all round. His lordship’s making ready for the Loyal Toast, so you’d better be getting something into that glass of yours. You don’t happen to be a parson, do you? That’s all right--we can skip the Bishop and Clergy and get ahead. There’ll be a deuce of a smoke before long--do you think you ought to sing in it? If you find you can’t stick it, there’s a door here, just behind my chair.” And Wiggie nodded his head gratefully, and began to repeat a mental list as long as the Shorter Catechism, beginning with beef and mutton and silken threads and mangolds and ploughing-matches, and ending with Brother Steve’s boots. After that, the business of the evening began. The cloths cleared, and dessert on the table, together with the long, white churchwardens, Bluecaster rose to propose “The King!” This having been honoured with fervour, the hands went out to the pipes, and Uncle Willie got to his feet to have his say about the landlord. You could see Bluecaster wriggle until his health was safely through the wine, and the cheers and musical honours safely off the feudal chest. His speech in reply was a mixture of Cairo and crops, recognition, New Year wishes and shy little jokes, haltingly delivered, but it was well intended and very well received; and always the hint of breeding crept out in some graceful thought, however poorly spoken,--regret for a sick man’s absence, sympathy in bereavement, congratulation upon some particular success. Towards the end, he stumbled and stuck with half a sentence on his lips, and Lancaster knew that he wanted to say something about the Whinnerahs, but he was barely through the introductory words before the old man reached out a hand, begging: “Don’t, my lord! Don’t now!” and the master huddled up his speech in a last blanket of acknowledgment and sat down.