“I’ve always heard it was dreadful expensive,” remarked Mrs. Cullom.

“Let me give you some,” said John, reaching toward her with the bottle.  Mrs. Cullom looked first at Mrs. Bixbee and then at David.

“I don’t know,” she said.  “I never tasted any.”

“Take a little,” said David, nodding approvingly.

“Just a swallow,” said the widow, whose curiosity had got the better of scruples.  She took a swallow of the wine.

“How do ye like it?” asked David.

“Well,” she said as she wiped her eyes, into which the gas had driven the tears, “I guess I could get along if I couldn’t have it regular.”

“Don’t taste good?” suggested David with a grin.

“Well,” she replied, “I never did care any great for cider, and this tastes to me about as if I was drinkin’ cider an’ snuffin’ horseradish at one and the same time.”

“How’s that, John?” said David, laughing.

“I suppose it’s an acquired taste,” said John, returning the laugh and taking a mouthful of the wine with infinite relish.  “I don’t think I ever enjoyed a glass of wine so much, or,” turning to Aunt Polly, “ever enjoyed a dinner so much,” which statement completely mollified her feelings, which had been the least bit in the world “set edgeways.”

“Mebbe your app’tite’s got somethin’ to do with it,” said David, shoveling a knife-load of good things into his mouth.  “Polly, this young man’s ben livin’ on crackers an’ salt herrin’ fer a week.”

“My land!” cried Mrs. Bixbee with an expression of horror.  “Is that reelly so?  ’T ain’t now, reelly?”

“Not quite so bad as that,” John answered, smiling; “but Mrs. Elright has been ill for a couple of days and—­well, I have been foraging around Purse’s store a little.”

“Wa’al, of all the mean shames!” exclaimed Aunt Polly indignantly.  “David Harum, you’d ought to be ridic’lous t’ allow such a thing.”

“Wa’al, I never!” said David, holding his knife and fork straight up in either fist as they rested on the table, and staring at his sister.  “I believe if the meetin’-house roof was to blow off you’d lay it onto me somehow.  I hain’t ben runnin’ the Eagle tavern fer quite a consid’able while.  You got the wrong pig by the ear as usual.  Jest you pitch into him,” pointing with his fork to John.  “It’s his funeral, if anybody’s.”

“Wa’al,” said Aunt Polly, addressing John in a tone of injury, “I do think you might have let somebody know; I think you’d ortter ’ve known—­”

“Yes, Mrs. Bixbee,” he interrupted, “I did know how kind you are and would have been, and if matters had gone on so much longer I should have appealed to you, I should have indeed; but really,” he added, smiling at her, “a dinner like this is worth fasting a week for.”

“Wa’al,” she said, mollified again, “you won’t git no more herrin’ ’nless you ask fer ’em.”

“That is just what your brother said this morning,” replied John, looking at David with a laugh.