and in short, while I was all abroad as to her knowledge and everything, the pigs, who had been fast asleep and dreaming in their emptiness, awoke with one accord at the goodness of the smell around them. They had resigned themselves, as even pigs do, to a kind of fast, hoping to break their fast more sweetly on the morrow morning. But now they tumbled out all headlong, pigs below and pigs above, pigs point-blank and pigs across, pigs courant and pigs rampant, but all alike prepared to eat, and all in good cadence squeaking.

‘Tak smarl boocket, and bale un out; wad ‘e waste sich stoof as thic here be?’ So Betty set me to feed the pigs, while she held the lanthorn; and knowing what she was, I saw that she would not tell me another word until all the pigs were served. And in truth no man could well look at them, and delay to serve them, they were all expressing appetite in so forcible a manner; some running to and fro, and rubbing, and squealing as if from starvation, some rushing down to the oaken troughs, and poking each other away from them; and the kindest of all putting up their fore-feet on the top-rail on the hog-pound, and blinking their little eyes, and grunting prettily to coax us; as who would say, ‘I trust you now; you will be kind, I know, and give me the first and the very best of it.’

‘Oppen ge-at now, wull ’e, Jan? Maind, young sow wi’ the baible back arlway hath first toorn of it, ’cos I brought her up on my lap, I did. Zuck, zuck, zuck! How her stickth her tail up; do me good to zee un! Now thiccy trough, thee zany, and tak thee girt legs out o’ the wai. Wish they wud gie thee a good baite, mak thee hop a bit vaster, I reckon. Hit that there girt ozebird over’s back wi’ the broomstick, he be robbing of my young zow. Choog, choog, choog! and a drap more left in the dripping-pail.’

‘Come now, Betty,’ I said, when all the pigs were at it sucking, swilling, munching, guzzling, thrusting, and ousting, and spilling the food upon the backs of their brethren (as great men do with their charity), ‘come now, Betty, how much longer am I to wait for your message? Surely I am as good as a pig.’

‘Dunno as thee be, Jan. No straikiness in thy bakkon. And now I come to think of it, Jan, thee zed, a wake agone last Vriday, as how I had got a girt be-ard. Wull ’e stick to that now, Maister Jan?’

‘No, no, Betty, certainly not; I made a mistake about it. I should have said a becoming mustachio, such as you may well be proud of.’

‘Then thee be a laiar, Jan Ridd. Zay so, laike a man, lad.’

‘Not exactly that, Betty; but I made a great mistake; and I humbly ask your pardon; and if such a thing as a crown-piece, Betty’—

‘No fai, no fai!’ said Betty, however she put it into her pocket; ‘now tak my advice, Jan; thee marry Zally Snowe.’

‘Not with all England for her dowry. Oh, Betty, you know better.’

‘Ah’s me! I know much worse, Jan. Break thy poor mother’s heart it will. And to think of arl the danger! Dost love Larna now so much?’

‘With all the strength of my heart and soul. I will have her, or I will die, Betty.’

‘Wull. Thee will die in either case. But it baint for me to argify. And do her love thee too, Jan?’

‘I hope she does, Betty I hope she does. What do you think about it?’

‘Ah, then I may hold my tongue to it. Knaw what boys and maidens be, as well as I knew young pegs. I myzell been o’ that zort one taime every bit so well as you be.’ And Betty held the lanthorn up, and defied me to deny it; and the light through the horn showed a gleam in her eyes, such as I had never seer there before. ‘No odds, no odds about that,’ she continued; ‘mak a fool of myzell to spake of it. Arl gone into churchyard. But it be a lucky foolery for thee, my boy, I can tull ’ee. For I love to see the love