“There I don’t agree with you,” said I.

“That,” retorted the Ancient, stabbing at me with his pipe-stem, “that’s because you never was married, Peter.”

“Marriage!” said I; “marriage brings care, and great responsibility, and trouble for one’s self means trouble for others.”

“What o’ that?” exclaimed the Ancient. “’Tis care and ’sponsibility as mak’ the man, an’ if you marry a good wife she’ll share the burden wi’ ye, an’ ye’ll find what seemed your troubles is a blessin’ arter all.  When sorrer comes, ’tis a sweet thing—­oh! a very sweet thing—­to ‘ave a woman to comfort ye an’ ’old your ’and in the dark hour—­an’ theer’s no sympathy so tender as a woman’s, Peter.  Then, when ye be old, like me, an’ full o’ years ’tis a fine thing to ’ave a son o’ your own—­like Simon an’ a granddarter—­like my Prue—­’tis worth ’aving lived for, Peter, ay, well worth it.  It’s a man’s dooty to marry, Peter, ’is dooty to ‘isself an’ the world.  Don’t the Bible say summat about it not bein’ good for a man to live alone?  Every man as is a man should marry the sooner the better.”

“But,” said I, “to every happy marriage there are scores of miserable ones.”

“’Cause why, Peter?  ‘Cause people is in too much o’ a hurry to marry, as a rule.  If a man marries a lass arter knowin’ ’er a week—­’ow is ‘e goin’ to know if she’ll suit ’im all ’is days?  Nohow, Peter, it aren’t natral—­woman tak’s a lot o’ knowin’.  ’Marry in ‘aste, an’ repent in leisure!’ That aren’t in the Bible, but it ought to be.”

“And your own marriage was a truly happy one, Ancient?”

“Ah! that it were, Peter, ’appy as ever was—­but then, ye see, there was a Providence in it.  I were a fine young chap in them days, summat o’ your figure only bigger—­ah! a sight bigger—­an’ I were sweet on several lassies, an’ won’t say as they wer’n’t sweet on me—­three on ’em most especially so.  One was a tall, bouncin’ wench wi’ blue eyes, an’ golden ’air—­like sunshine it were, but it wer’n’t meant as I should buckle up wi’ ’er.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause, it so ’appened as she married summun else.”

“And the second?”

“The second were a fine, pretty maid tu, but I couldn’t marry she.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause, Peter, she went an’ took an’ died afore I could ax ’er.”

“And the third, you married.”

“No, Peter, though it come to the same thing in the end—­she married I. Ye see, though I were allus at ‘er beck an’ call, I could never pluck the courage to up an’ ax ’er right out.  So things went on for a year or so, maybe, till one day—­she were makin’ apple dumplings, Peter—­’Martin,’ says she, lookin’ at me sideways out of ’er black eyes—­just like Prue’s they were —­’Martin,’ says she, ’you ‘m uncommon fond o’ apple-dumplings?’ ‘For sure,’ says I, which I were, Peter.  ‘Martin,’ says she, ’shouldn’t ’ee like to eat of ’em whenever you wanted to, at your very own table, in a cottage o’