LITMIR.BIZ

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hope. Eh?”

      “It’s never too late—to mend,” said the farmer.

      “Eh? not my manners, eh?” Anthony struggled to keep up the ball; and in this way they got over the confusion of the meeting after many years and some differences.

      “Made acquaintance with Rhoda, I see,” said the farmer, as they turned to go in.

      “The ‘darkie lass’ you write of. She’s like a coal nigh a candle. She looks, as you’d say, ‘t’ other side of her sister.’ Yes, we’ve had a talk.”

      “Just in time for dinner, brother Tony. We ain’t got much to offer, but what there is, is at your service. Step aside with me.”

      The farmer got Anthony out of hearing a moment, questioned, and was answered: after which he looked less anxious, but a trifle perplexed, and nodded his head as Anthony occasionally lifted his, to enforce certain points in some halting explanation. You would have said that a debtor was humbly putting his case in his creditor’s ear, and could only now and then summon courage to meet the censorious eyes. They went in to Mrs. Sumfit’s shout that the dumplings were out of the pot: old Anthony bowed upon the announcement of his name, and all took seats. But it was not the same sort of dinner-hour as that which the inhabitants of the house were accustomed to; there was conversation.

      The farmer asked Anthony by what conveyance he had come. Anthony shyly, but not without evident self-approbation, related how, having come by the train, he got into conversation with the driver of a fly at a station, who advised him of a cart that would be passing near Wrexby. For threepennyworth of beer, he had got a friendly introduction to the carman, who took him within two miles of the farm for one shilling, a distance of fifteen miles. That was pretty good!

      “Home pork, brother Tony,” said the farmer, approvingly.

      “And home-made bread, too, brother William John,” said Anthony, becoming brisk.

      “Ay, and the beer, such as it is.” The farmer drank and sighed.

      Anthony tried the beer, remarking, “That’s good beer; it don’t cost much.”

      “It ain’t adulterated. By what I read of your London beer, this stuff’s not so bad, if you bear in mind it’s pure. Pure’s my motto. ‘Pure, though poor!’”

      “Up there, you pay for rank poison,” said Anthony. “So, what do I do? I drink water and thank ‘em, that’s wise.”

      “Saves stomach and purse.” The farmer put a little stress on ‘purse.’

      “Yes, I calculate I save threepence a day in beer alone,” said Anthony.

      “Three times seven’s twenty-one, ain’t it?”

      Mr. Fleming said this, and let out his elbow in a small perplexity, as Anthony took him up: “And fifty-two times twenty-one?”

      “Well, that’s, that’s—how much is that, Mas’ Gammon?” the farmer asked in a bellow.

      Master Gammon was laboriously and steadily engaged in tightening himself with dumpling. He relaxed his exertions sufficiently to take this new burden on his brain, and immediately cast it off.

      “Ah never thinks when I feeds—Ah was al’ays a bad hand at ‘counts. Gi’es it up.”

      “Why, you’re like a horse that never was rode! Try again, old man,” said the farmer.

      “If I drags a cart,” Master Gammon replied, “that ain’t no reason why I should leap a gate.”

      The farmer felt that he was worsted as regarded the illustration, and with a bit of the boy’s fear of the pedagogue, he fought Anthony off by still pressing the arithmetical problem upon Master Gammon; until the old man, goaded to exasperation, rolled out thunderingly,—

      “If I works fer ye, that ain’t no reason why I should think fer ye,” which caused him to be left in peace.

      “Eh, Robert?” the farmer transferred the question; “Come! what is it?”

      Robert begged a minute’s delay, while Anthony watched him with hawk eyes.

      “I tell you what it is—it’s pounds,” said Robert.

      This tickled Anthony, who let him escape, crying: “Capital! Pounds it is in your pocket, sir, and you hit that neatly, I will say. Let it be five. You out with your five at interest, compound interest; soon comes another five; treat it the same: in ten years—eh? and then you get into figures; you swim in figures!”

      “I should think you did!” said the farmer, winking slyly.

      Anthony caught the smile, hesitated and looked shrewd, and then covered his confusion by holding his plate to Mrs. Sumfit for a help. The manifest evasion and mute declaration that dumpling said “mum” on that head, gave the farmer a quiet glow.

      “When you are ready to tell me all about my darlin’, sir,” Mrs. Sumfit suggested, coaxingly.

      “After dinner, mother—after dinner,” said the farmer.

      “And we’re waitin’, are we, till them dumplings is finished?” she exclaimed, piteously, with a glance at Master Gammon’s plate.

      “After dinner we’ll have a talk, mother.”

      Mrs. Sumfit feared from this delay that there was queer news to be told of Dahlia’s temper; but she longed for the narrative no whit the less, and again cast a sad eye on the leisurely proceedings of Master Gammon. The veteran was still calmly tightening. His fork was on end, with a vast mouthful impaled on the prongs. Master Gammon, a thoughtful eater, was always last at the meal, and a latent, deep-lying irritation at Mrs. Sumfit for her fidgetiness, day after day, toward the finish of the dish, added a relish to his engulfing of the monstrous morsel. He looked at her steadily, like an ox of the fields, and consumed it, and then holding his plate out, in a remorseless way, said, “You make ‘em so good, marm.”

      Mrs. Sumfit, fretted as she was, was not impervious to the sound sense of the remark, as well as to the compliment.

      “I don’t want to hurry you, Mas’ Gammon,” she said; “Lord knows, I like to see you and everybody eat his full and be thankful; but, all about my Dahly waitin’,—I feel pricked wi’ a pin all over, I do; and there’s my blessed in London,” she answered, “and we knowin’ nothin’ of her, and one close by to tell me! I never did feel what slow things dumplin’s was, afore now!”

      The kettle simmered gently on the hob. Every other knife and fork was silent; so was every tongue. Master Gammon ate and the kettle hummed. Twice Mrs. Sumfit sounded a despairing, “Oh, deary me!” but it was useless. No human power had ever yet driven Master Gammon to a demonstration of haste or to any acceleration of the pace he had chosen for himself. At last, she was not to be restrained from crying out, almost tearfully,—

      “When do you think you’ll have done, Mas’ Gammon?”

      Thus pointedly addressed, Master Gammon laid down his knife and fork. He half raised his ponderous, curtaining eyelids, and replied,—

      “When I feels my buttons, marm.”

      After which he deliberately fell to work again.

      Mrs. Sumfit dropped back in her chair as from a blow.

      But even dumplings, though they resist so doggedly for a space, do ultimately submit to the majestic march of Time, and move. Master Gammon cleared his plate. There stood in the dish still half a dumpling. The farmer and Rhoda, deeming that there had been a show of inhospitality, pressed him to make away with this forlorn remainder.

      The vindictive old man, who was as tight as dumpling and buttons could make him, refused it in a drooping tone, and went forth, looking at none. Mrs. Sumfit turned to all parties, and begged them to say what more, to please Master Gammon, she could have done? When Anthony was ready to speak of her Dahlia, she obtruded this question in utter dolefulness. Robert was kindly asked by the farmer to take a pipe among them. Rhoda put a chair for him, but he thanked them both, and said he could not neglect some work to be done in the fields. She thought

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