“Praise the ford as ye find it,” said that sage; “I’ve found good yal maks good yarn.  Folks that wad put doon good yal ought to be theirselves putten doon.”

“Then you must have been hanged this many a long year, Father Matthew,” said Monsey, “for you’ve put down more good ale than any man in Wythburn.”

Old Matthew had to stand the laugh against himself this time.  In the midst of it he leaned over to Ralph, and, as though to cover his discomfiture, whispered, “He’s gat a lad’s heart, the laal man has.”

Then, with the air of one about to communicate a novel idea,—­

“And sic as ye gie, sic will ye get, frae him.”

“Well, well,” he added aloud, “ye munnet think I cannot stand my rackups.”

The old man, despite this unexpected fall, was just beginning to show his mettle.  The sententious graybeard was never quite so happy, never looked quite so wise, never shook his head with such an air of good-humored consequence, never winked with such profundity of facetiousness, as when “the laal limber Frenchman” was giving a “merry touch.”  Wouldn’t Monsey sing summat and fiddle to it too; aye, that he would, Mattha knew reet weel.

“Sing!” cried the little man,—­“sing!  Monsieur, the dog shall try me this conclusion.  If he wag his tail, then will I sing; if he do not wag his tail, then—­then will I not be silent.  What say you Laddie?” The dog responded to the appeal with an opportune if not an intelligent wag of that member on which so momentous an issue hung.  From one of the rosy closets in the wall a fiddle was forthwith brought out, and soon the noise of the tempest was drowned in the preliminary tuning of strings and running of scales.

“You shall beat the time, my patriarch,” said Monsey.

“Nay, man; it’s thy place to kill it,” answered Matthew.

“Then you shall mark the beat, or beat the mark, or make your mark.  You could never write, you know.”

It was a sight not to be forgotten to see the little schoolmaster brandishing his fiddlestick, beating time with his foot, and breaking out into a wild shout when he hit upon some happy idea, for he rejoiced in a gift of improvisation.  A burst of laughter greeted the climax of his song, which turned on an unheroic adventure of old Matthew’s.  The laughter had not yet died away when a loud knocking came to the door.  Ralph jumped to his feet.

“I said some one was coming; and he’s been here before, whoever he is.”

At that he walked to the door and opened it.  Laddie was there before him.

“Is Ralph Ray here?”

It was the voice of a woman, charged with feeling.

Ralph’s back had been to the light, and hence his face had not been recognized.  But the light fell on the face of the new-comer.

“Rotha!” he said.  He drew her in, and was about to shut out the storm behind her.

“No,” she said almost nervously.  “Come with me; some one waits outside to see you; some one who won’t—­can’t come in.”