o feels his random mind dipped
into with a spirit-gauge and a saccharometer. But in spite of all these
indications, Robin Lyth stuck to himself, which is the right way to get
credit for sticking.

"Johnny, my dear," said Deborah Popplewell to her valued husband, just
about the time when bold Carroway was getting hot and sore upon the
Filey Road, yet steadily enlarging all the penance of return, "things
ought to be coming to a point, I think. We ought not to let them so be
going on forever. Young people like to be married in the spring; the
birds are singing, and the price of coal goes down. And they ought to be
engaged six months at least. We were married in the spring, my dear, the
Tuesday but one that comes next from Easter-day. There was no lilac
out, but there ought to have been, because it was not sunny. And we have
never repented it, you know."

"Never as long as I live shall I forget that day," said Popplewell;
"they sent me home a suit of clothes as were made for kidney-bean
sticks. I did want to look nice at church, and crack, crack, crack they
went, and out came all the lining. Debby, I had good legs in those days,
and could crunch down bark like brewers' grains."

"And so you could now, my dear, every bit as well. Scarcely any of the
young men have your legs. How thankful we ought to be for them--and
teeth! But everything seems to be different now, and nobody has any
dignity of mind. We sowed broad beans, like a pigeon's foot-tread, out
and in, all the way to church."

"The folk can never do such things now; we must not expect it of such
times, my dear. Five-and-forty years ago was ninety times better than
these days, Debby, except that you and I was steadfast, and mean to
be so to the end, God willing. Lord! what are the lasses that He makes
now?"

"Johnny, they try to look their best; and we must not be hard upon them.
Our Mary looks well enow, when she hath a color, though my eyes might 'a
been a brighter blue if I never hadn't took to spectacles. Johnny, I am
sure a'most that she is in her love-time. She crieth at night, which is
nobody's business; the strings of her night-cap run out of their starch;
and there looks like a channel on the pillow, though the sharp young
hussy turns it upside down. I shall be upsides with her, if you won't."

"Certainly it shall be left to you; you are the one to do it best. You
push her on, and I will stir him up. I will smuggle some schnapps into
his tea to-night,