h-hewn planks stood between. On this was
a bottle containing maize-corn whiskey--or, "bald face," as it is more
familiarly known in the backwoods--two cracked cups to drink out of; a
couple of corn-cob pipes; and some black tobacco. All these
preparations had been made beforehand; and confirmed, what had dropped
from the lips of Lilian, that the visitor had been expected. Beyond the
customary phrases of salutation, not a word was exchanged between the
host and guest, until both had seated themselves. The squatter then
commenced the conversation.

"Yev hed a long ride, Josh," said he, leaning towards the table and
clutching hold of the bottle: "try a taste o' this hyur
_rot-gut_--'taint the daintiest o' drink to offer a man so genteelly
dressed as you air this morning; but thur's wuss licker in these hyur
back'oods, I reckun. Will ye mix? Thur's water in the jug thar."

"No water for me," was the laconic reply. "Yur right 'bout that. Its
from old Hatcher's still--whar they us'ally put the water in afore they
give ye the licker. I s'pose they do it to save a fellur the trouble o'
mixing--Ha! ha! ha!" The squatter laughed at his own jest-mot as if he
enjoyed it to any great extent, but rather as if desirous of putting his
visitor in good-humour. The only evidence of his success was a dry
smile, that curled upon the thin lip of the saint, rather sarcastically
than otherwise.

There was silence while both drank; and Holt was again under the
necessity of beginning the conversation. As already observed, he had
noticed the altered style of the schoolmaster's costume; and it was to
this transformation that his next speech alluded. "Why, Josh," said he,
attempting an easy off-hand style of talk, "ye're bran new, spick span,
from head to foot; ye look for all the world jest like one o' them ere
cantin' critters o' preechers I often see prowlin' about Swampville.
Durn it, man! what dodge air you up to now. _You_ hain't got rileegun,
I reck'n?"

"I have," gravely responded Stebbins.

"Hooraw! ha, ha, ha! Wal--what sort o' thing is't anyhow?"

"My religion is of the right sort, Brother Holt."

"Methody?"

"Nothing of the kind."

"What then? I thort they wur all Methodies in Swampville?"

"They're all _Gentiles_ in Swampville--worse than infidels themselves."

"Wal--I know they brag mightily on thur genteelity. I reckon you're
about right thur--them, storekeepers air stuck-up enough for anythin'."

"No,