'Ah, the good old times,' said another Apostle, 'and it is still, you know, a custom that every Councillor keeps a little wine-book or drinking account, reckoned up and discharged at the end of the year. When a man sat here every night of his life, he didn't care to be always putting his hands in his pockets, so it was worked on the tally system, and I hear there are still a few brave old fellows left who use the same plan.' 'Yes, yes, children,' said the old Rose, 'it was another world a couple of centuries, or even one, or even half a century ago. They used to bring their wives and daughters into the cellar with them, and the fair Bremen maids, who were famed far and wide for bright eyes and rosy cheeks and voluptuous lips, drank nothing but good Rhine wine. Now forsooth, they must have tea and stuff like that, wretched foreign stuff, which girls in my time would only take if they had a little cough or sore throat, as a drug. And will you believe me, people actually put sweet Spanish stuff into true Rhine wines because they say we are sour.' The Apostles roared with laughter at this last idea, and I couldn't help joining. As for Bacchus, he had to be patted on the back by Balthasar to recover him. 'Yes, the g-g-g-good old times,' sputtered he as he got breath again, 'every burgher drank his honest half gallon and went home as sober as a judge: now a glass upsets them, they're so out of practice.' 'There was a fine story to that effect a couple of centuries ago,' said my Lady, and smiled to herself at the recollection of it. 'Please tell it us, Frau Rose. Yes! the story! the story!' they all began to cry. She emptied her bowl to clear her voice, and began.