ing else. At
this there was a general laugh, after which Reuben, with numerous
blinkings of his little eyes, bantered Robbie about the great drought
not long before, when a universal fast had been proclaimed, and Robbie
had asked why, if folks could not get water, they would not content
themselves with ale.

"Liza, teem a short pint intil this lang Robbie," said Matthew.

Liza brought up a foaming pot, but the young man put it aside with a
bashful smile at the girl, who laughed and blushed as she pressed it
back upon him.

"Not yet, Liza; when we come back, perhaps."

"Will you not take it from me?" said the girl, turning her pretty head
aside, and giving a sly dig of emphasis to the pronouns.

"Not even from you, Liza, yet awhile."

The mischievous little minx was piqued at his refusal, and determined
that he should drink it, or decline to do so at the peril of losing
her smiles.

"Come, Robbie, you shall drink it off--you must."

"No, my girl, no."

"I think I know those that would do it if I asked them," said Liza,
with an arch elevation of her dimpled chin and a shadow of a pout.

"Who wouldn't do it, save Robbie Anderson?" he said, laughing for the
first time that morning as he walked out of the kitchen.

In a few minutes he returned, saying all was ready, and it was time to
start away. Every man rose and went to the front of the house. The old
mare Betsy was there, with the coffin strapped on her broad back. Her
bruised knees had healed; the frost had disappeared, her shoes were
sharpened, and she could not slip. When the mourners had assembled and
ranged themselves around the horse, the Reverend Nicholas Stevens came
out with the relatives, the weeping mother and son, with Rotha Stagg,
and the "Old Hundredth" was sung.

Then the procession of men on foot and men on horseback set off,
Robbie Anderson in front leading the mare that bore the coffin, and a
boy riding a young horse by his side. Last of all rode Willy Ray, and
as they passed beneath the trees that overhung the lane, he turned in
the saddle and waved his arm to the two women, who, through the
blinding mist of tears, watched their departure from the porch.

CHAPTER XI. LIZA'S WILES.

The procession had just emerged from the lane, and had turned into the
old road that hugged the margin of the mere, when two men walked
slowly by in the opposite direction. Dark as it had been when Willy
encountered these men before, he had not an i