Denny seized this excellent opportunity for sending round a cardboard nautical imitation labelled “The Thweng Life-Boat,” and quite a number of pence was jangled down in front of Brack. He nodded careless thanks, but he whitened angrily, and he sent one long glance up the table which set Lancaster biting his lip. The farmer said nothing, however, and his lordship, grateful that the difficult subject was not to be re-opened, muttered--“Bounder got some decent feeling, after all!” and handed him his own cigarette-case. Brack coloured, this time, and fell into frowning thought. The courtesy got home, even through his armour of conceit, but vaguely he groped for subtler sympathy behind. Who knew what Bluecaster really thought about the Lugg? Denny was asked to respond for “The Bonny Lasses of Westmorland,” and did so with enthusiasm, quite unabashed by pointed interrogations, such as: “Wha was fust-footer ower to Braithet’s?” (Braithwaite had a crowd of pretty daughters) and, “Wha’s buits bed ta gitten fur t’job?” etc., etc. Michael opened the singing in the gentle, light tenor that he raised every Sunday in the Ladyford family pew where his fathers had worshipped. The song was the inevitable “Kind Mary,” and Lanty wondered whether he was thinking of his own cheerful, masterful partner as he sang with his mild eyes fixed on the ceiling, marking the rhythm with slow nods. Denny gave them the famous “Eh, poor Lassie, she was Dumb!” and called upon Brack to oblige with “Pull for the Shore, Sailor!” or “Throw out the Life-Line!” but his victim, placated by the cigarette-case, was not to be drawn. Old Simon contributed “The Mardale Hunt,” hammering out the time with the punch-ladle, and quaveringly commanding the chorus to “give it weft!” Lanty always sang the same song, his father’s song: “In the Downhill of Life.” Wigmore, drawn gradually back by the music, stood presently in the doorway, listening to the simple faith of an older generation-- “In the Downhill of Life when I find I’m declining, May my fate no less fortunate be, Than a snug Elbow Chair can afford for reclining, And a Cot that o’erlooks the wide sea. With an ambling pad Poney to pace o’er the Lawn, While I carol away Idle sorrow, And blythe as the Lark, that each day hails the dawn, Look forward with hope for To-morrow. To-morrow, To-morrow, Look forward with hope for To-morrow. With a Porch at my door both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail, And a small spot of ground, for the use of the spade too, With a Barn for the use of the flail; A Cow for my dairy, a Dog for my game, And a Purse when a friend wants to borrow, I’ll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honours may wait him To-morrow.