Now Margaret on her way fell in with Mr. Shillabeer, gun in hand, and she expressed gladness at the sight of him taking his pleasure. For Reuben Shillabeer by force of accident has until the present appeared in a light unusual and exceptional. The prize-fight and all that went before it created an atmosphere wherein the master of ’The Corner House’ appeared translated from his true self. During that time he responded a little to the joy of life and went about his business a cheerful and even a sanguine soul; but with the decision of the contest and the departure of Mr. Fogo to his metropolitan activities, Shillabeer found life an anti-climax, the darker for this fleeting spasm of excitement. His wife, as if in reproach, returned upon him with the force of an incubus that haunted not only his pillow but hung heavy on his waking hours; a settled melancholy, the more marked after its recent dissipation, got hold upon him; he exhaled an air of depression even behind his own bar, and only the high qualities and specific vigour of his malt liquors were able to dispel it. The ’Dumpling’ became increasingly religious and Mr. Merle had long since forgiven his lamentable lapse of the previous winter. Mr. Shillabeer was actually now engaged on behalf of the vicar of the parish, as he explained to Margaret. "Come Woodcock Sunday, ’tis always my hope and will to get the bird for parson," he said. "He do read the chapter with special purpose to catch my ear; and so sure as it comes, I fetch out my gun and set forth for the man. But what with my failing strength and sight, I can’t shoot a cunning creature like a cock many more years. I’m going down under Coombeshead to-day and I shall call on your mother come the evening for a cup of tea and a talk about the revel. Since the wedding feast is put into my hands, I shall do my duty, though I may tell you that a wedding in the air cuts me to the quick. It brings her back as nothing else does." "I’m sorry for that--truly sorry." "You can’t help it," he said, rubbing the walnut stock of his gun with his sleeve until it shone. "Ban’t your fault. But a oner for weddings she was--a regular oner for ’em; and a christening would draw her miles despite the girth of her frame. ’Tis only at the business of a funeral I can comfort myself with an easy and cheerful spirit; for she hated them. No doubt she knowed her own would come untimely." "Perhaps ’twas an instinct in her against ’em." "Though never a woman hastened to dry other people’s tears quicker than her. Then ’churchings’--she never had no use for them herself, yet she’d often stop for the pleasure of:--’Like as the arrows in the hand of the giant; even so are the young children.’ And so on. Nought’s sadder than to see a childless wife, in my opinion--specially if she’s fond of ’em. I hope you’ll have a sackful, my dear." "It’s very kind of you--very kind," said Margaret, frankly. "David and me dearly love the little ones."