“No groom but a bridegroom, Sir, and then I think I’d rather groom a horse than a lady, for I got well bit—if you will excuse me, Sir.” “And you deserved it—no doubt.” “I got it—an’ I wish you better luck, Sir. One’s more a man here in th’ wood, though, than in my lady’s parlour, it strikes me.” “A lady’s parlour!” laughed Leslie, indulgent in his amusement at the facetious keeper. “Oh, yes! ‘Will you walk into my parlour——’” “You’re very smart for a keeper.” “Oh, yes Sir—I was once a lady’s man. But I’d rather watch th’ rabbits an’ th’ birds; an’ it’s easier breeding brats in th’ Kennels than in th’ town.” “They are yours, are they?” said I. “You know ’em, do you, Sir? Aren’t they a lovely little litter?—aren’t they a pretty bag o’ ferrets?—natural as weasels—that’s what I said they should be—bred up like a bunch o’ young foxes, to run as they would.” Emily had joined Lettie, and they kept aloof from the man they instinctively hated. “They’ll get nicely trapped, one of these days,” said I. “They’re natural—they can fend for themselves like wild beasts do,” he replied, grinning. “You are not doing your duty, it strikes me,” put in Leslie sententiously. The man laughed. “Duties of parents!—tell me, I’ve need of it. I’ve nine—that is eight, and one not far off. She breeds well, the ow’d lass—one every two years—nine in fourteen years—done well, hasn’t she?” “You’ve done pretty badly, I think.” “I—why? It’s natural! When a man’s more than nature he’s a devil. Be a good animal, says I, whether it’s man or woman. You, Sir, a good natural male animal; the lady there—a female un—that’s proper as long as yer enjoy it.” “And what then?” “Do as th’ animals do. I watch my brats—I let ’em grow. They’re beauties, they are—sound as a young ash pole, every one. They shan’t learn to dirty themselves wi’ smirking deviltry—not if I can help it. They can be like birds, or weasels, or vipers, or squirrels, so long as they ain’t human rot, that’s what I say.” “It’s one way of looking at things,” said Leslie. “Ay. Look at the women looking at us. I’m something between a bull and a couple of worms stuck together, I am. See that spink!” he raised his voice for the girls to hear. “Pretty, isn’t he? What for?—And what for do you wear a fancy vest and twist your moustache, Sir! What for, at the bottom! Ha—tell a woman not to come in a wood till she can look at natural things—she might see something—Good night, Sir.” He marched off into the darkness. “Coarse fellow, that,” said Leslie when he had rejoined Lettie, “but he’s a character.” “He makes you shudder,” she replied. “But yet you are interested in him. I believe he has a history.” “He seems to lack something,” said Emily. “I thought him rather a fine fellow,” said I. “Splendidly built fellow, but callous—no soul,” remarked Leslie, dismissing the question. “No,” assented Emily. “No soul—and among the snowdrops.” Lettie was thoughtful, and I smiled.