“Mother,” called Mr. Hill to his spouse, “whatever has become of Rufus?”

“You know very well, Henry Cooke, that Rufus is helping Andrew Hislop with his bee, and will not be back before morning.  The young people are to have a dance after the bee, and then a late supper, at which the deipnosophists will do justice to Abigail’s gastronomy.”  This was said with an approving side glance at the lawyer.  When Wilkinson looked up, his friend perceived at once that his offence was forgiven.  The husband, without removing the pipe from between his teeth, mumbled, “Just so, to be sure.”

“Is your son’s name William Rufus, Mrs. Hill?” enquired the dominie.

“No; it is simply Rufus.  William, you know, is not a Scripture name.  We thought of baptizing him Narcissus, which comes just before Tryphena, but my husband said, as he was the youngest, he should come lower down in the chapter, and after Persis, which is my name.”

“I was tayching school, and a bachelor,” put in the said husband, “when there was a county meeting—­they call them conventions now—­that Persis was at.  They called her Miss Persis Prophayt, but it was spelled like the English Prophet.  She was that pretty and nice-spoken then I couldn’t kape my eyes off her.  She’s gone off her nice looks and ways a dale since that time.  Then I went back to the childer and the Scripture readins, with a big dictionary at my elbow for the long names.  ’The beloved Persis’ was forever coming up, till the gyurls would giggle and make my face as red as a turkey cock.  So I had this farrum and some money saved, and I sent to ask the beloved Persis to put me out of my misery and confusion of countenance.”

“Indeed he did,” said the old lady, with a merry laugh, “and what do you think was his way of popping the question?”

“Oh, let us hear, Mrs. Hill,” cried Coristine.

“Mother, if you do,” interposed the old man, “I’ll put my foot down on your convention of retired taychers at Owen Sound.”  But mother paid no attention to the threat.

“He asked if I knew the story of Mahomet and the mountain, and how Mahomet said, if the mountain will not come to the prophet, the prophet must go to the mountain.  So, said he, you are the prophet and must come to my house under the mountain, and be a Hill yourself.  It was so funny and clever that I came; besides I was glad to change the name Prophet.  People were never tired making the most ridiculous plays upon it.  The old Scotch schoolmistress, who taught me partly, was named Miss Lawson, so they called us Profit and Loss; and they pronounced my Christian name as if it was Purses, and nicknamed me Property, and took terrible liberties with my nomenclature.”  At this the whole company laughed heartily, after which the dominie said:  “I see your pipe is out, Corry; you might favour our kind friends with a song.”  The lawyer did not know what to sing, but took his inspiration, finally, from Wilkinson’s last question, and sang the ballad of William Rufus, as far as:—­