a snug haven after a hard ride in a
comparatively unbroken country. "Affluence we may know, but poverty is
apt to be our companion."

To this the other deemed no response necessary and a silence fell
between them, broken only by the simmering water in the iron kettle,
the sputtering of the sap in the burning logs and the creaking without
of the long balancing pole that suspended the moss-covered bucket. The
wind sighed in the chimney and the wooing flames sprang to meet it,
while the heart of the fire glowed in a mass of coals between the
andirons.

The old gentleman before the blaze began to outrival the kettle in
steaming; from his coat-tails a thin veil of mist ascended, his face
beaming through the vapor with benign felicity. Then he turned and
toasted the other side and the kettle reigned supreme until he thawed
once more and the clouds ascended, surrounding him like Jupiter on the
celestial mount. At that the kettle hummed more angrily and the old
gentleman's face beamed with satisfaction.

"A snug company, sir," he said, finally, glowing upon the impassive
face before him, "like a tight ship, can weather a little bad weather.
Perhaps you noticed our troupe? The old lady is Mrs. Adams. She is
nearly seventy, but can dance a horn-pipe or a reel with the best of
them. The two sisters are Kate and Susan Duran, both coquettes of the
first water. Our juvenile man is a young Irishman who thinks much of
his dress and little of the cultivation of mind and manners. Then,"
added the old man tenderly, "there is my Constance."

He paused abruptly. "Landlord, a pot of ale. My throat is hoarse from
the mist. Fancy being for hours on a road not knowing where you are!
Your good-fortune, sir!" Lifting the mug. "More than once we lurched
like a cockle-shell."

The conversation at this point was interrupted by the appearance of
the juvenile man.

"Mr. Barnes, the ladies desire your company immediately."

The manager hurriedly left the room and the newcomer regarded his
retiring figure with a twinkle in his eye. Then he took a turn around
the room in stilted fashion--like one who "carried about with him his
pits, boxes and galleries"--and observed:

"Faith, Mr. Barnes' couch is not a bed of roses. It is better to have
the fair ones dangling after you, than to be running at their every
beck and call."

Here he twisted his mustache upward.

"A woman is a strange creature," he resumed. "If she calls and you
come once, you