"So! he has bruised thee, Urith! That would have cracked my old skull had it fallen athwart it, by heaven! Never mind, I kiss thee, wench, for having saved me, and I forgive him for thy sake. Look here, Urith, don't thou go taking it into thy noddle that all married folks agree like turtle-doves. Did'st ever hear me sing the song about Trinity Sunday? When bites the frost and winds are a blowing, I do not heed and I do not care. When 'Tony's by me--why let it be snowing, 'Tis summer time with me all the year. The icicles they may hang on the fountain, And frozen over the farmyard pool, The east wind whistle upon the mountain, No wintry gusts our love will cool. That is courtship, Urith--summer in the midst of winter. Now listen to matrimony--what that is:-- I shall be wed a' Trinity Sunday, And then--adieu to my holiday! Come frost, come snow on Trinity Monday, Why then beginneth my winter day. If drudge and smudge on Trinity Monday, If wind and weather--I do not care! If winter follows Trinity Sunday, It can't be summer-time all the year. That's the proper way to regard it. After marriage storms always come; after matrimony nipping frosts and wintry gales. It can't be summer-time all the year. Now just see," continued Uncle Sol, climbing upon the table and seating himself thereon, and then fumbling in his pocket. "Dos't fancy it was ever summer-time with thy father and mother after they were wed? Not a bit, wench--not a bit. They had their quarrels. I don't say that they were exactly of the same sort as be yours, but they were every whit as bad--aye! and worse, and all about this." He opened his hand and showed a broken silver crown piece of Charles I., perforated, and with a ribbon holding it. "I'll tell thee all about it. Afore thy father was like to be married to my sister, he was mighty taken in love with someone else. Well, Urith, I won't conceal it from thee--it was with Margaret Penwarne, that afterward married old Squire Cleverdon, and became the mother of thy Anthony. Everyone said they would make a pair, but he was poor and she had naught, and none can build their nest out of love; so it was put off. But I suppose they had passed their word to each other, and in token of good faith had broken a silver crown and parted it between them. This half," said Uncle Sol, "belonged to thy father. Well, I reckon he ought, when he married thy mother, to have put away from his thoughts the very memory of Margaret Cleverdon. I could not see into his heart--I cannot say what was there. Maybe he had ceased to think of her after she was wed to Anthony Cleverdon, and he had taken thy mother; maybe he had not. All men have their little failings--some one way, some another. Mine is--well, you know it, niece, so let it pass. I hurt none but myself. But thy father never parted with the broken half-token, but would keep it. Many words