sheep-dog, Pinder that now, already, was shaking the snow oft his shaggy coat preparatory to curling himself up before the fire.

“Sakes alive! It’s a rough ’un, good folk,” said the master of Fairbanks, “Good night to yo’ Betty, an’ to yo’, Mr. Black. I was feart aw should miss yo’. Give me a stiff ’un o’ rum hot wi’ sugar an’ a splash o’ lemon; an’ yo’ Aleck, will’t ha’ a pint o’ mulled?” Which redolent compound Mrs. Schofield was now pouring into a capacious pitcher.

“Tha knows better, mester,” was Aleck’s blunt reply. “A quart o’ ale, missis, an’ nooan too much yead on it—no fal-lals for me, mi stummack’s too wake.”

This was an unusually long speech for Aleck, and he sank exhausted on a settle that ran beneath a long narrow window, whilst the dog prone upon the hearth, his jaws resting on his fore paws, feigned sleep, but blinked at times from beneath twitching eyebrows at the rugged visage of the tanned, weather-beaten herdsman.

“An’ yo’ stabled th’ mare aw nivver heerd th’ stable door oppen?” queried Mrs Schofield.

“Nay, I left Bess at th’ Floating Lights. She cast a shoe coming over th’ Top. So we’n walked daan an welly up to mi chin aw’ve bin more nor once—it’s th’ heaviest fall aw mind on.”

“But you’re late Fairbanks,” said Mr Black. “I looked for you this hour and more. Have you had a good market?”

“Aye nowt to grumble at, an’ we Aleck? Sold forty head o’ beast an’ bought thirty as fine cattle as ever yo’ clapped e’en on, eh, Aleck? An’ we’re nooan strapped yet,” he laughed, as he drew a leather pouch from an inner pocket and cast it jingling on to the table. “Here Betty, put that i’th cupboard.”

“Have yo’ counted it?” asked Mrs. Schofield, handling the greasy bag gingerly.

“Count be danged,” said Mr. Redfearn, “saving your presence, schoolmaster. Gi’ me another jorum. Sup up, Aleck.”

Aleck supped up and silently handed his pewter to Mrs Schofield.

“But it wasn’t the market that kept me so late,” went on Mr Redfearn. “There were a meeting o’ th’ free holders o’ th’ district to consider the new Reform Bill. We met i’ th’ big room at th’ George, but it all came to nowt; though Harry Brougham talked and talked fit to talk a hen an’ chickens to death. Gosh! Our Mary’s a good ’un, but she couldn’t hold a can’le to Brougham.”

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