countenance. He stood complacently sunning himself in the heat. With a speaker, or stake, he tossed the outlying scraps of fuel into the conflagration, looking at the midst of the pile, occasionally lifting his eyes to measure the height of the flame, or to follow the great sparks which rose with it and sailed away into darkness. The beaming sight, and the penetrating warmth, seemed to breed in him a cumulative cheerfulness, which soon amounted to delight. With his stick in his hand he began to jig a private minuet, a bunch of copper seals shining and swinging like a pendulum from under his waistcoat: he also began to sing, in the voice of a bee up a flue— 

 “The king′ call’d down′ his no-bles all′, By one′, by two′, by three′; Earl Mar′-shal, I’ll′ go shrive′-the queen′, And thou′ shalt wend′ with me′.  “A boon′, a boon′, quoth Earl′ Mar-shal′, And fell′ on his bend′-ded knee′, That what′-so-e’er′ the queen′ shall say′, No harm′ there-of′ may be′.” 

 Want of breath prevented a continuance of the song; and the breakdown attracted the attention of a firm-standing man of middle age, who kept each corner of his crescent-shaped mouth rigorously drawn back into his cheek, as if to do away with any suspicion of mirthfulness which might erroneously have attached to him. 

 “A fair stave, Grandfer Cantle; but I am afeard ’tis too much for the mouldy weasand of such a old man as you,” he said to the wrinkled reveller. “Dostn’t wish th’ wast three sixes again, Grandfer, as you was when you first learnt to sing it?” 

 “Hey?” said Grandfer Cantle, stopping in his dance. 

 “Dostn’t wish wast young again, I say? There’s a hole in thy poor bellows nowadays seemingly.” 

 “But there’s good art in me? If I couldn’t make a little wind go a long ways I should seem no younger than the most aged man, should I, Timothy?” 

 “And how about the new-married folks down there at the Quiet Woman Inn?” the other inquired, pointing towards a dim light in the direction of the distant highway, but considerably apart from where the reddleman was at that moment resting. “What’s the rights of the matter about ’em? You ought to know, being an understanding man.” 

 “But a little rakish, hey? I own to it. Master Cantle is that, or he’s nothing. Yet ’tis a gay fault, neighbour Fairway, that age will cure.” 

 “I heard that they were coming home tonight. By this time they must have come. What besides?” 

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