“I’ll make a note of it,” said Uncle Isaac as he pocketed the money, “and send a postal-order.” “O, don’t trouble about that, Uncle Isaac!” For Uncle Isaac, with the small property, must not be offended in a matter of a half-crown. “What? Trouble?” he ejaculated, deeply pained. “To pay my—” “’Ere—come on!” growled Mr. Butson savagely from the outer gloom. “Come on!” And they went together, taking the lane in the direction opposite to that lately used by the noisy woman. “Well,” old May observed, “we don’t often have visitors, an’ I was glad to see your Uncle Isaac, Nan. An’ Mr. Butson, too,” he added impartially. “Yes,” returned Bessy’s mother innocently. “Such a gentleman, isn’t he?” “There’s one thing I forgot,” the old man said suddenly. “I might ha’ asked ’em to take a drop o’ beer ’fore they went.” “They had some while they was waitin’ for tea. An’—an’ I don’t think there’s much left.” She dragged a large tapped jar from under the breeding-box at the window, and it was empty. “Ah!” was all the old man’s comment, as he surveyed the jar thoughtfully. Presently he turned into the back-house and emerged with a tin pot and a brush. “I’m a goin’ treaclin’ a bit,” he said. “Come, Johnny?” The boy pulled his cap from his pocket, fetched a lantern, and was straightway ready, while Bessy sat to her belated tea. The last pale light lay in the west, and the evening offered up an oblation of sweet smells. All things that feed by night were out, and nests were silent save for once and again a sleepy twitter. Every moment another star peeped, and then one more. The boy and the old man walked up the slope among the trees, pausing now at one, now at another, to daub the bark with the mixture of rum and treacle that was in the pot. “It’s always best to be careful where you treacle when there’s holiday folk about,” said Johnny’s grandfather. “They don’t understand it. Often I’ve treacled a log or a stump and found a couple sittin’ on it when I came back—with new dresses, and sich. It’s no good explainin’—they think it’s all done for practical jokin’. It’s best to go on an’ take no notice. I’ve heard ’em say:—’Don’t the country smell lovely?’—meanin’ the smell o’ the rum an’ treacle they was a-sittin’ on. But when they find it—lor, the language I _have_ heard! Awful! . . . ” The boy was quiet almost all the round. Presently he said, “Gran’dad, do you _really_ like that likeness I made of mother?” “Like it, my boy? Why o’ course. It’s a nobby picture!” “Uncle Isaac said it was bad.” “O!” There was a thoughtful pause while they tramped toward the next tree. “That’s only Uncle Isaac’s little game, Johnny. You mustn’t mind that. It’s a nobby picture.” “I don’t believe Uncle Isaac knows anything about it,” said the boy vehemently. “I think he’s ignorant.” “Here, Johnny, Johnny!” cried his grandfather. “That won’t do, you know. Not at all. You mustn’t say things like that.”