‘Mr. Malone,’ said he, ‘you must require refreshment after your wet walk; I forget hospitality.’

‘Not at all,’ rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore rose and opened a cupboard.

‘It is my fancy,’ said he, ‘to have every convenience within myself, and not to be dependent on the feminity in the cottage yonder for every mouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often spend the evening and sup here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes I am my own watchman; I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to wander for an hour or two with my musket about the hollow. Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton-chop?’

‘Try me: I’ve done it hundreds of times at college.’

‘There’s a dishful, then, and there’s the gridiron. Turn them quickly; you know the secret of keeping the juices in?’

‘Never fear me—you shall see. Hand a knife and fork, please.’

The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself to the cookery with vigour. The manufacturer placed on the table plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then produced a small copper kettle—still from the same well-stored recess, his cupboard—filled it with water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch- bowl; but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him away.

‘Is it you, Sarah?’

‘Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?’

‘No; I shall not be in to-night. I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed.’

He returned.

‘You have your household in proper order,’ observed Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent, he assiduously turned the mutton-chops. ‘You are not under petticoat government, like poor Sweeting; a man—whew!—how the fat spits!—it has burnt my hand—destined to be ruled by women. Now, you and I, Moore—there’s a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy—you and I will have no gray mares in our stables when we marry.’

‘I don’t know—I never think about it: if the gray mare is handsome and tractable, why not?’

‘The chops are done; is the punch brewed?’

‘There is a glassful; taste it. When Joe Scott and his minions return they shall have a share of this, provided they bring home the frames intact.’

Malone waxed very exultant over the supper; he laughed aloud at trifles, made bad jokes and applauded them himself and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before. It is time, reader, that you should have some idea of the appearance of this same host; I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at table.

He is what you would probably call at first view rather a strange-looking man, for he is thin, dark, sallow, very foreign of aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead; it appears that he spends but little time at his toilette, or he would arrange it with more taste. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, that they have a Southern symmetry, clearness, regularity in their chiselling; nor does a spectator become aware of this advantage till he has examined him well, for an anxious countenance and a hollow,