“Mattha Branthet,” said Reuben Thwaite, “what, man, thoo didst flyte the minister!  What it is to hev the gift o’ gob and gumption!”

“Shaf!  It’s kittle shootin’ at crows and clergy,” replied Matthew.

The breakfast being over, the benches were turned towards the big peat fire that glowed red on the hearth and warmed the large kitchen on this wintry day.  The ale jars were refilled, pipes and tobacco were brought in, and the weaver relinquished his office of potman to his daughter.

“I’d be nobbut a clot-heed,” he said when abdicating, “and leave nane for mysel if I sarrad it oot.”

Robbie Anderson now put on his great cloak, and took down a whip from a strap against the rafters.

“What’s this?” said little Reuben to Robbie.  “Are you going without a glass?”

Robbie signified his intention of doing just that and nothing else.  At this there was a general laugh, after which Reuben, with numerous blinkings of his little eyes, bantered Robbie about the great drought not long before, when a universal fast had been proclaimed, and Robbie had asked why, if folks could not get water, they would not content themselves with ale.

“Liza, teem a short pint intil this lang Robbie,” said Matthew.

Liza brought up a foaming pot, but the young man put it aside with a bashful smile at the girl, who laughed and blushed as she pressed it back upon him.

“Not yet, Liza; when we come back, perhaps.”

“Will you not take it from me?” said the girl, turning her pretty head aside, and giving a sly dig of emphasis to the pronouns.

“Not even from you, Liza, yet awhile.”

The mischievous little minx was piqued at his refusal, and determined that he should drink it, or decline to do so at the peril of losing her smiles.

“Come, Robbie, you shall drink it off—­you must.”

“No, my girl, no.”

“I think I know those that would do it if I asked them,” said Liza, with an arch elevation of her dimpled chin and a shadow of a pout.

“Who wouldn’t do it, save Robbie Anderson?” he said, laughing for the first time that morning as he walked out of the kitchen.

In a few minutes he returned, saying all was ready, and it was time to start away.  Every man rose and went to the front of the house.  The old mare Betsy was there, with the coffin strapped on her broad back.  Her bruised knees had healed; the frost had disappeared, her shoes were sharpened, and she could not slip.  When the mourners had assembled and ranged themselves around the horse, the Reverend Nicholas Stevens came out with the relatives, the weeping mother and son, with Rotha Stagg, and the “Old Hundredth” was sung.

Then the procession of men on foot and men on horseback set off, Robbie Anderson in front leading the mare that bore the coffin, and a boy riding a young horse by his side.  Last of all rode Willy Ray, and as they passed beneath the trees that overhung the lane, he turned in the saddle and waved his arm to the two women, who, through the blinding mist of tears, watched their departure from the porch.