dhered to this discovery with satisfaction.

"Oh, we are going to have a squall, say you," interpreted the master,
rising to inspect the weather-glass, which in truth had fallen deep
with much suddenness. "More than a squall, I think; this looks like a
hurricane coming. But since you are safe home, all's well; we are
secure and sound here, and the fishing fleet are drawing in, I see,"
peering through the seaward window. "And now," continued Adrian,
laying down his napkin, and brushing away a few crumbs from the folds
of a faultless silk stock, "what have you for me there--and what
news?"

"News, your honour! Oh, for that I have news this time," said Mr.
Renny Potter, with an emphatic nod, "but if your honour will permit, I
shall say them last. I have brought the clothes and the linen, the
wine, the brandy, and the books. Brandy and wine, your honour, I
heard, out of the last prize brought into Liverpool, and a Nantes ship
it was, too"--this in a pathetically philosophical tone. Then after a
pause: "Also provisions and bulbs for the devil's pot, as Margery will
call it. But there is no saying, your honour eats more when I have
brought him back onions, eschalot, and _ail_; now do I lie, your
honour? May I?" added the speaker, and forthwith took his answer from
his master's smile; "may I respectfully see what the old one has
kitchened for you when I was not there?"

And Adrian Landale with some amusement watched the Frenchman rise from
the package he was then uncording to examine the platters on the table
and loudly sniff his disdain.

"Ah, ah, boiled escallops again. Perfectly--boiled cabbage seasoned
with salt. Not a taste in the whole affair. Prison food--oh, yes, old
woman! Why, we nourished ourselves better in the Tower, when we could
have meat at all. Ah, your honour," sighed the man returning to his
talk; "you others, English, are big and strong, but you waste great
things in small enjoyment!"

"Oho, Renny," said the light-keeper squire, as he leant against the
fireplace leisurely filling a long clay pipe, "this is one of your
epigrams; I must make a note of it anon; but let me see now what you
really have in those parcels of books--for books they are, are they
not? so carefully and neatly packed."

"Books," assented the man, undoing the final fold of paper. "Mr. Young
in the High Street of Liverpool had the packets ready. He says you
must have them all; and all printed this year. What so many people can
wan