The maids, huddled together like a bunch of red apples, were set shaking with laughter at this warning--as if by a boisterous wind. "Who will help us with our boots?" asked Clare as he subsided upon a truss of straw and flung his legs wide apart. There was considerable whispering from the heart of the bunch till one of the maids was pushed by her companions out into the open with ejaculations of "Go on, stoopid." "Thee needst not let on to be so backward." "Thee wast forthy enough behind the kitchen door yester'een." "Eh! bustle thyself, great gowk," and others of like freedom of opinion. The maid selected for Mr. Clare was blooming indeed. "Cream and claret," murmured Charles. "Gad! a Venus by a Dutch master truly," commented Vernon. "She's no g-ghost," stammered little Peter Wingfield. _"Farewell and adieu to you, gay Spanish ladies, Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain."_ sang or rather bellowed Mr. Blewforth, slapping his thigh with a nautical zest. _"Our Blewforth, careening far nearer than Cadiz Will give to green fields what was meant for the Main."_ continued Charles to the same tune. "Give what?" asked Tom Chalkley. "The breezy charm of his manner," replied Charles. Now ensued jests, giggles, laughter, pranks, and struggles, as each gentleman persuaded a fair to wrestle with his riding-boots. Vernon who had forgotten to provide himself with pumps remained aloof from the merriment not sorry for an opportunity to convince Mr. Lovely of his remoteness from anything so vulgar as excitement. Great was the mirth of everybody when the Lieutenant produced an enormous Valentine that depicted a peculiarly fat Cupid winking at a dairymaid over a brimming bowl of milk. Greater still was the mirth when he presented the token with much earnestness to the bashful lass they called Margery, and it became uproarious indeed when he explained he had wished to offer it on the preceding night, but had been deterred by Mr. Clare's reputed jealousy. "Whoever heard tell of such a thing in the milk before?" "Tis a Cupid, Margery," said Mr. Clare. "There now and if I didn't go for to think it were a baby," declared Margery. Farmer Hogbin coming back from attending to the horses in time to hear this remark called out in his great voice: "Don't 'ee fret thyself, my lass, what thee wants'll come soon enough, I warrant. Now my gentlemen, take your partners, we was just a-going to begin a round dance. Tune up your squeaking boxes, fiddlers, and tip us _Come lasses and lads_." The fiddlers smiled encouragement at the dancers as they struck off with the gallant old tune. Even Mr. Vernon, boots and all, was made to give an arm to buxom Mrs. Crumplehorn, the cowman's wife. The sanded floor of the barn resounded with the perpetual tripping of toes and heels. _"Come, lasses and lads, Take leave of your dads."_