er the clustering leaves sang beneath
its breath. The sun was hot and the air was drowsed by the hum of
insects.

And full of happy people was the meadow between the old house on the
Moss and the pack-horse road in front of it. It was the day of the
Wythburn sports, and this year it was being celebrated at
Shoulthwaite. Tents had been pitched here and there in out-of-the-way
corners of the field, and Mrs. Branthwaite, with her meek face, was
appointed chief mistress and dispenser of the hospitality of the
Shoulthwaite household.

"This is not taty-and-point," said her husband, with a twinkle in his
eyes and a sensation of liquidity about the lips as he came up to
survey the outspread tables.

Mattha Branthwaite was once more resplendent in those Chapel-Sunday
garments with which, in the perversity of the old weaver's unorthodox
heart, that auspicious day was not often honored. Mrs. Ray had been
carried out in her chair by her stalwart sons. Her dear old face
looked more mellow and peaceful than before. Folks said the paralysis
was passing away. Mattha himself, who never at any time took a
melancholy view of his old neighbor's seizure, stands by her chair
to-day and fires off his sapient saws at her with the certainty that
she appreciates every saw of them.

"The dame's to the fore yit," he says, "and lang will be."

At Mrs. Ray's feet her son Willy lies on the grass in a blue jerkin
and broad-brimmed black hat with a plume. Willy's face is of the type
on which trouble tells. Behind him, and leaning on the gate that leads
from the court to the meadow, is Ralph, in a loose jacket with deep
collar and a straw hat. He looks years younger than when we saw him
last. He is just now laughing heartily at a batch of the
schoolmaster's scholars who are casting lots close at hand. One
bullet-headed little fellow has picked up a couple of pebbles, and
after putting them through some unseen and mysterious manoeuvres
behind him, is holding them out in his two little fists, saying,--

Neevy, neevy nack,
Whether hand will ta tack--
T' topmer or t' lowmer?

"What hantle of gibberish is that?" says Monsey Laman himself.

"_I_ is to tumble the poppenoddles," cries the bullet-headed
gentleman. And presently the rustic young gamester is tossing
somersets for a penny.

In the middle of the meadow, and encircled by a little crowd of
excited male spectators, two men are trying a fall at wrestling.
Stripped to the wa