“Any news, mother?” he asked, as he lifted one of the crisp brown trout from its bed of white damask and curly green parsley.

“None, squire; only the sheep-shearing at the Up-Hill Farm to-morrow.  John of Middle Barra called with the statesman’s respects.  Will you go, squire?”

“Certainly.  My men are all to lend a hand.  Barf Latrigg is ageing fast now; he was my father’s crony; if I slighted him, I should feel as if father knew about it.  Which of you will go with me?  Thou, mother?”

“That, I cannot, squire.  The servant lasses are all promised for the fleece-folding; and it’s a poor house that won’t keep one woman busy in it.”

“Sophia and Charlotte will go then?”

“Excuse me, father,” answered Sophia languidly.  “I shall have a headache to-morrow, I fear; I have been nervous and poorly all the afternoon.”

“Why, Sophia, I didn’t think I had such a foolish lass!  Taking fancies for she doesn’t know what.  If you plan for to-morrow, plan a bit of pleasure with it; that’s a long way better than expecting a headache.  Charlotte will go then.  Eh?  What?”

“Yes, father; I will go.  Sophia never could bear walking in the heat.  I like it; and I think there are few things merrier than a sheep-shearing.”

“So poetic!  So idyllic!” murmured Sophia, with mild sarcasm.

“Many people think so, Sophia.  Mr. Wordsworth would remember Pan and Arcadian shepherds playing on reedy pipes, and Chaldaean shepherds studying the stars, and those on Judaea’s hills who heard the angels singing.  He would think of wild Tartar shepherds, and handsome Spanish and Italian.”

“And still handsomer Cumberland ones.”  And Sophia, having given this little sisterly reminder, added calmly, “I met Mr. Wordsworth to-day, father.  He had come over the fells with a party, and he looked very much bored with his company.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if he were.  He likes his own company best.  He is a great man now, but I remember well when people thought he was just a little off-at-side.  You knew Nancy Butterworth, mother?”

“Certainly I did, squire.  She lived near Rydal.”

“Yes.  Nancy wasn’t very bright herself.  A stranger once asked her what Mr. Wordsworth was like; and she said, ’He’s canny enough at times.  Mostly he’s wandering up and down t’ hills, talking his po-et-ry; but now and then he’ll say, “How do ye do, Nancy?” as sensible as you or me.’”

“Mr. Wordsworth speaks foolishness to a great many people besides Nancy Butterworth,” said Sophia warmly; “but he is a great poet and a great seer to those who can understand him.”

“Well, well, Mr. Wordsworth is neither here nor there in our affairs.  We’ll go up to Latriggs in the afternoon, Charlotte.  I’ll be ready at two o’clock.”

“And I, also, father.”  Her face was flushed and thoughtful, and she had become suddenly quiet.  The squire glanced at her, but without curiosity; he only thought, “What a pity she is a lass!  I wish Harry had her good sense and her good heart; I do that.”