d the ring of the lusty
voices. The little parlor looked warm and snug with its great cobs of
old peat glowing red as they burnt away sleepily on the broad hearth.
At intervals the door would open and a shepherd would enter. He had
housed his sheep for the night, and now, seated as the newest corner on
the warmest bench near the fire, with a pipe in one hand and a pot of
hot ale in the other, he was troubled by the tempest no more.

"At Michaelmas a good fat goose, at Christmas stannen' pie, and good
yal awt year roond," said an old man in the chimney corner. This was
Matthew Branthwaite, the wit and sage of Wythburn, once a weaver, but
living now on the husbandings of earlier life. He was tall and slight,
and somewhat bent with age. He was dressed in a long brown sack coat,
belted at the waist, below which were pockets cut perpendicular at the
side. Ribbed worsted stockings and heavy shoes made up, with the
greater garment, the sum of his visible attire. Old Matthew had a vast
reputation for wise saws and proverbs; his speech seemed to be made of
little else; and though the dalespeople had heard the old sayings a
thousand times, these seemed never to lose anything of their piquancy
and rude force.

"It's a bad night, Mattha Branthet," said a new-comer.

"Dost tak me for a born idiot?" asked the old man. "Dost think I
duddent known that afore I saw thee, that thou must be blodderen oot,'
It's a bad neet, Mattha Branthet?'" There was a dash of rustic spite
in the old man's humor which gave it an additional relish.

"Ye munnet think to win through the world on a feather bed, lad," he
added.

The man addressed was one Robbie Anderson, a young fellow who had for
a long time indulged somewhat freely in the good ale which the sage
had just recommended for use all the year round. Every one had said he
was going fast to his ruin, making beggars of himself and of all about
him. It was, nevertheless, whispered that Robbie was the favored
sweetheart among many of Matthew Branthwaite's young daughter Liza;
but the old man, who had never been remarkable for sensibility, had
said over and over again, "She'll lick a lean poddish stick, Bobbie,
that weds the like of thee." Latterly the young man had in a silent
way shown some signs of reform. He had not, indeed, given up the good
ale to which his downfall had been attributed; but when he came to the
Red Lion he seemed to sleep more of his time there than he drank. So
the village