der proved too much for the minister, who rose, the
repast being over, and stalked past Rotha into the adjoining chamber,
where the widow and Willy sat in their sorrow. The dalesmen looked
after his retreating figure, and as the door of the inner room closed,
they heard his metallic voice ask if the deceased had judiciously
arranged his temporal affairs.

During the encounter between the weaver and the clergyman the company
had outwardly observed a rigid neutrality. Little Liza, it is true,
had obviously thought it all the best of good fun, and had enjoyed it
accordingly. She had grinned and giggled just as she had done on the
preceding Sunday when a companion, the only surviving child of Baptist
parents now dead, had had the water sprinkled on her face at her
christening in the chapel on the Raise. But Luke Cockrigg, Reuben
Thwaite, and the rest had remained silent and somewhat appalled. The
schoolmaster had felt himself called upon to participate in the
strife, but being in the anomalous position of owing his official
obligations to the minister and his convictions to the side championed
by the weaver, he had contented him with sundry grave shakes of his
big head, which shakes, being subject to diverse interpretations, were
the least compromising expressions of opinion which his genius could
suggest to him. No sooner, however, had the door closed on the
clergyman than a titter went round the table. Matthew was still at a
white heat. Accustomed as he was to "tum'le" his neighbors at the Red
Lion, he was now profoundly agitated. It was not frequently that he
brought down such rare game in his sport.

"Mattha Branthet," said Reuben Thwaite, "what, man, thoo didst flyte
the minister! What it is to hev the gift o' gob and gumption!"

"Shaf! It's kittle shootin' at crows and clergy," replied Matthew.

The breakfast being over, the benches were turned towards the big peat
fire that glowed red on the hearth and warmed the large kitchen on
this wintry day. The ale jars were refilled, pipes and tobacco were
brought in, and the weaver relinquished his office of potman to his
daughter.

"I'd be nobbut a clot-heed," he said when abdicating, "and leave nane
for mysel if I sarrad it oot."

Robbie Anderson now put on his great cloak, and took down a whip from
a strap against the rafters.

"What's this?" said little Reuben to Robbie. "Are you going without a
glass?"

Robbie signified his intention of doing just that and noth