“And sometimes a great deal better,” said Frederic, laughing.  “But since you have made up your mind to love Anthony, sit down and give us another cup of tea.”

“There is some one below-stairs, Mr. Anthony, who loves you at any rate,” continued Clary, after handing the gentlemen their replenished cups.  “One who is quite impatient to see you, who is never tired of talking about you, and calls you her dear boy, and says that she never loved any of her own sons better than you.”

“Ruth! is she here?  Let me see her directly,” said Anthony, rising from the table.

“Sit down, Mr. Hurdlestone.  I will ring the bell for her.  She can speak to you here.”

In a few minutes, a plainly-dressed, middle-aged woman entered the room.

“My dear foster-mother!  Is that you?” said Anthony, springing to meet her.

“Why yees, Muster Anthony,” said the honest creature, flinging her arms round his neck, and imprinting on either cheek a kiss that rang through the room; while she laughed and cried in the same breath.  “The Lord love you!  How you bees grown.  Is this here fine young gentleman the poor half-starved little chap that used to come begging to Ruth Candler for a sup o’ milk and a morsel o’ bread?  Well, yer bees a man now, and able to shift for yoursel, whiles I be a poor old woman, half killed by poverty and hard work.  When you come in for your great fortin, don’t forget old Ruth.”

“Indeed I will not, my good mother; if ever that day arrives, I shall know how to reward my old friends.  But you make a strange mistake, Ruth, when you call yourself old.  You look as young as ever.  And how are all my old play-fellows?”

“Some dead; some in service; and my eldest gal, Mr. Anthony, is married to a Methody parson, only think, my Sally, the wife of a Methody parson.”

“She was a good girl.”

“Oh, about as good as the rest on us.  And, pray, how do old Shock come along?  Is the old dog dead?”

“Of old age, Ruth.  He got so fat and sleek in my uncle’s house, you never would have known the poor starved brute.”

“In truth, you were a poverty pair—­jist a bag o’ bones the twain o’ ye.  I wonder the old Squire warn’t ashamed to see you walk the earth.  An’ they do tell me, Measter Anthony, that he be jist as stingy as ever.”

“Age seldom improves avarice.”

“Why, nothing gets the better for being older, but strong beer.  An’ that sometimes gets a little sourish with keeping.”

Anthony took the hint.  “Ah, I remember.  Your husband was very fond of ale—­particularly in harvest-time You must give him this, to drink my health.”  And he slipped a guinea into her hand.  “And to-morrow, when I come over the hill, I shall expect him to halloo largess.”

“The Lord love you, for a dear handsome young gentleman.  An’ my Dick will do that with the greatest of pleasure.”  And, with an awkward attempt at a curtsey, the good woman withdrew.