er year this time; ought to be, anyhow." Then aloud at the door,
"Keep an eye to the door, Polly," he cried. "I'm going down the
orchard."

"Yes, father; I'll mind."

"That'll do it," said the landlord, laughing till his face grew as red
as his own apples. "Nobody can't come and accuse me of sending the boy,
and they'll never suspect her."

He walked right down the orchard, and then crept quickly to the hedge,
stooped down, went nearer to the house, and then watched and listened.

"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed softly. "I knew she would. Good-hearted girl!
There he goes."

The landlord rubbed his hands as, turning to a hole in the hedge, he saw
his boy Dick go off at a canter, lying flat down on the back of a little
Exmoor pony, his arms on each side of the pony's neck, till he was over
the nearest hill and descending into the valley, when he sat up and
urged the pony on at as fast a gallop as the little beast could go.

"Nice promise of apples," said the landlord, contentedly smiling up at
the green clusters. "Now, if I could have my wish, I should like a
splendid crop of fox-whelps and gennet-moyles. Then I should like
peace. Lastly, I should like to see all the gentry who are fighting and
cutting one another's throats shake hands outside my door, and have a
mug of my best cider. And all these wishes I wish I may get. There,
now I'll go in."

He went slowly back to the house, puffing away at his pipe, and directly
after encountered his red-faced daughter, who looked ruddier than ever
as the old man looked at her searchingly, chuckling to himself the
while. "I'll give her such a scare," he said.

"Want me, father?"

"Want you? Of course I do. Go and call Dick."

"Dick, father?" she faltered.

"Yes; didn't I speak plainly! Call Dick."

"He's--he's out."

"Who sent him out?"

"I--I did, father."

"Oh, you did, did you--without my leave?"

"Oh, father--father," cried the girl, sobbing, "don't--don't be angry
with me!"

"Not I, Polly," he cried, bending down and kissing her. "Only I don't
know anything, and I don't want to know anything, mind."

"And you're not cross about it?"

"I'm not cross about anything; but I shall be if I don't have a mug of
cider, for I've been thinking, and thinking's thirsty work."

"Then you had been thinking that--"

"Never you mind what I had been thinking, my lass. My thoughts are
mine, and your thoughts are yours, so keep 'em to yourself. When I've
had