"Aye betters!" snapped the landlady, or as nearly snapped as lips like hers could snap. "It's me as says it, an' me as 'll stand to it. Wheer i' all th' parish will yo find a freer hand or a bigger heart nor Tom o' Fairbanks? Tell me that, yo' besom." "Aye free enew," said Molly curtly. Mrs. Schofield bridled indignantly. "Oh! It's weel for yo' to sit by mi own fireside an' eat o' mi bread an' nivver so happy as when yo're castin' up bye-gones 'at should be dead an' buried long sin." "Aye, aye, let the dead past bury its dead," put in the schoolmaster soothingly. "An' what if Redfearn o' Fairbanks ware a bit leet gi'en i' his young days," went on the irate hostess. "He's nooan th' first an' he'll nooan be th' last. He's nobbut human like most folk 'at ivver I heard tell on. He's honest enough now, if he's had to wear honest. An' it's weel known...." But what was so well known that the voluble tongue of Mrs. Schofield was about to repeat it at large shall not be here set down, nor was destined that night to enlighten the company; for the outer door was opened, and a gust of keen wind laden with feathery flakes of snow whirled up the narrow passage, well nigh extinguishing the slender light of the oil lamp on the wall, and causing the great burnished metal dishes and the very warming-pan itself to sway gently on their hooks. "It's Fairbanks, hissen," said Mrs. Schofield "Talk o' the de'il," muttered the irrepressible Moll but no one heeded. Then was heard much stamping of feet in the outer passage and kicking of boot toes on the lintel of the door and not a little coughing and clearing of the throat. "Ugh! Shut the door to, man," cried a hearty voice; "do yo' want me to be blown into th' back-yard?" The heavy bolt-studded door was pressed back and there strode into the room a tall well-built man. Top-booted, spurred, with riding-whip in hand, and wearing the long heavy-lapetted riding-coat of the period--a hale, hearty man fresh-complexioned, with close cropped crisping hair, the face clean shaven after the fashion of the times, a masterful man, you saw at a glance, and one who knew it. Though he was over the borderland of his fifth decade, time had neither wrinkled his ruddy face nor streaked his crisp brown hair. Behind him as he strolled into the kitchen, shambled a thick-set, saturnine, grim-visaged churl, who knew more of his master's business and far more of his master's secrets than the mistress of Fairbanks herself. It was Aleck, the shepherd and general factotum of Fairbanks farm, Aleck the silent, Aleck the cynic, Aleck the misogynist, against whose steeled heart successive milk-maids and servant wenches had cast in vain the darts and arrows of amorous eyes and who was spitefully averred to care only for home-brewed ale, and the sheep-dog, Pinder that now, already, was shaking the snow oft his shaggy coat preparatory to curling himself up before the fire.