“You are a happy man to have so fair a child,” said I, speaking more in compliment than with a careful choice of words.

“I am a happy man,” was the landlord’s smiling answer; his fair, round face, unwrinkled by a line of care or trouble, beaming with self-satisfaction.  “I have always been a happy man, and always expect to be.  Simon Slade takes the world as it comes, and takes it easy.  My son, sir,” he added, as a boy, in his twelfth year, came in.  “Speak to the gentleman.”

The boy lifted to mine a pair of deep blue eyes, from which innocence beamed, as he offered me his hand, and said, respectfully—­“How do you do, sir?” I could not but remark the girl-like beauty of his face, in which the hardier firmness of the boy’s character was already visible.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Frank, sir.”

“Frank is his name,” said the landlord—­“we called him after his uncle.  Frank and Flora—­the names sound pleasant to the ears.  But you know parents are apt to be a little partial and over fond.”

“Better that extreme than its opposite,” I remarked.

“Just what I always say.  Frank, my son,”—­the landlord spoke to the boy—­“there’s some one in the bar.  You can wait on him as well as I can.”

The lad glided from the room in ready obedience.

“A handy boy that, sir; a very handy boy.  Almost as good, in the bar as a man.  He mixes a toddy or a punch just as well as I can.”

“But,” I suggested, “are you not a little afraid of placing one so young in the way of temptation?”

“Temptation!” The open brows of Simon Slade contracted a little.  “No, sir!” he replied, emphatically.  “The till is safer under his care than it would be in that of one man in ten.  The boy comes, sir, of honest parents.  Simon Slade never wronged anybody out of a farthing.”

“Oh,” said I, quickly, “you altogether misapprehend me.  I had no reference to the till, but to the bottle.”

The landlord’s brows were instantly unbent, and a broad smile circled over his good-humored face.

“Is that all?  Nothing to fear, I can assure you.  Frank has no taste for liquor, and might pour it out for mouths without a drop finding its way to his lips.  Nothing to apprehend there, sir—­ nothing.”

I saw that further suggestions of danger would be useless, and so remained silent.  The arrival of a traveler called away the landlord, and I was left alone for observation and reflection.  The bar adjoined the neat sitting-room, and I could see, through the open door, the customer upon whom the lad was attending.  He was a well-dressed young man—­or rather boy, for he did not appear to be over nineteen years of age—­with a fine, intelligent face, that was already slightly marred by sensual indulgence.  He raised the glass to his lips, with a quick, almost eager motion, and drained it at a single draught.

“Just right,” said he, tossing a sixpence to the young bar-tender.  “You are first rate at a brandy-toddy.  Never drank a better in my life.”