“Why, it’s all according, master,” he answered, in a surly tone.

“According to what?” said I.

“According to what you want, master.”

“Why, as to that—­” I began.

“Because,” he went on, administering a particularly vicious kick to the fire, “if you was to ask me for a French hortolon—­or even the ’ump of a cam-el—­being a very truthful man, I should say—­no.”

“But I want no such things,” said I.

“And ’ow am I to know that—­’ow am I to know as you ain’t set your ’eart on the ’ump of a cam-el?”

“I tell you I want nothing of the sort,” said I, “a chop would do—­”

“Chop!” sighed the man, scowling threateningly at the fire, “chop!”

“Or steak,” I hastened to add.

“Now it’s a steak!” said the man, shaking his head ruefully, and turning upon me a doleful eye, “a steak!” he repeated; “of course—­it would be; I s’pose you’d turn up your nose at ’am and eggs—­it’s only to be expected.”

“On the contrary,” said I, “ham and eggs will suit me very well; why couldn’t you have mentioned them before?”

“Why, you never axed me as I remember,” growled the fellow.

Slipping my knapsack from my shoulders, I sat down at a small table in a corner while the man, with a final kick at the fire, went to give my order.  In a few minutes he reappeared with some billets of wood beneath his arm, and followed by a merry-eyed, rosy-cheeked lass, who proceeded, very deftly, to lay a snowy cloth and thereupon in due season, a dish of savory ham and golden-yolked eggs.

“It’s a lovely morning!” said I, lifting my eyes to her comely face.

“It is indeed, sir,” said she, setting down the cruet with a turn of her slender wrist.

“Which I make so bold as to deny,” said the surly man, dropping the wood on the hearth with a prodigious clatter, “’ow can any morning be lovely when there ain’t no love in it—­no, not so much as would fill a thimble?  I say it ain’t a lovely morning, not by no manner o’ means, and what I says I ain’t ashamed on, being a nat’rally truthful man!” With which words he sighed, kicked the fire again, and stumped out.

“Our friend would seem somewhat gloomy this morning,” said I.

“He’ve been that way a fortnight now, come Satu’day,” replied the slim lass, nodding.

“Oh?” said I.

“Yes,” she continued, checking a smile, and sighing instead; “it’s very sad, he’ve been crossed in love you see, sir.”

“Poor fellow!” said I, “can’t you try to console him?”

“Me, sir—­oh no!”

“And why not?  I should think you might console a man for a great deal.”

“Why, you see, sir,” said she, blushing and dimpling very prettily, “it do so happen as I’m the one as crossed him.”

“Ah!—­I understand,” said I.

“I’m to be married to a farmer—­down the road yonder; leastways, I haven’t quite made up my mind yet.”