drily, "Shouldst have told me this tale in the
churchyard. I doubt, I had given thee the mass for love. However," said
he (the thermometer suddenly falling), "'tis ill luck to go back upon a
bargain. But I'll broach a bottle of my old Medoc for thee: and few
be the guests I would do that for." The cure went to his cupboard, and
while he groped for the choice bottle, he muttered to himself, "At their
old tricks again!"

"Plait-il?" said Gerard.

"I said nought. Ay, here 'tis."

"Nay, your reverence. You surely spoke: you said, 'At their old tricks
again!'"

"Said I so in sooth?" and his reverence smiled. He then proceeded to
broach the wine, and filled a cup for each. Then he put a log of wood on
the fire, for stoves were none in Burgundy. "And so I said 'At their old
tricks!' did I? Come, sip the good wine, and, whilst it lasts, story for
story, I care not if I tell you a little tale."

Gerard's eyes sparkled.

"Thou lovest a story?"

"As my life."

"Nay, but raise not thine expectations too high, neither. 'Tis but a
foolish trifle compared with thine adventures."

THE CURE'S TALE.

"Once upon a time, then, in the kingdom of France, and in the duchy
of Burgundy, and not a day's journey from the town where now we sit
a-sipping of old Medoc, there lived a cure. I say he lived; but barely.
The parish was small, the parishioners greedy; and never gave their
cure a doit more than he could compel. The nearer they brought him to a
disembodied spirit by meagre diet, the holier should be his prayers in
their behalf. I know not if this was their creed, but their practice
gave it colour.

"At last he pickled a rod for them.

"One day the richest farmer in the place had twins to baptize. The cure
was had to the christening dinner as usual; but ere he would baptize
the children, he demanded, not the christening fees only, but the burial
fees. 'Saints defend us, parson, cried the mother; 'talk not of burying!
I did never see children liker to live.' 'Nor I,' said the cure, 'the
praise be to God. Natheless, they are sure to die, being sons of Adam,
as well as of thee, dame. But die when they will, 'twill cost them
nothing, the burial fees being paid and entered in this book.' 'For all
that 'twill cost them something,' quoth the miller, the greatest wag
in the place, and as big a knave as any; for which was the biggest God
knoweth, but no mortal man, not even the hangman. 'Miller, I tell thee
nay,' quo' the cure. 'Par