s in Carlisle, I went to see a kinsman o' mine there as has set up i'
the cabinet-making trade, and he showed me a balk o' yon bonnie new wood
as they ha'e getten o'er o' late--the auld Vicar used to ha'e his
dining-table on't; it comes frae some outlandish pairts, and they call
it a queer name; I canna just mind it the noo--I reckon I'm getting too
auld to tak' in new notions."

"Mahogany?"

"Ay, maybe that's it: I ken it minded me o' mud and muggins. Atweel, my
cousin tauld me they'd a rare call for siccan wood, and being vara
costly, they'd hit o' late in the trade on a new way o' making
furniture, as did nae come to sae mickle--they ca' it veneer."

"Oh yes, I know," said I.

"Ay, ye'll hae seen it i' London toun, I daur say? all that's bad's safe
to gang there." I believe Sam thinks all Londoners a pack of thieves.
"Atweel, Miss Cary, there's a gran' sicht o' veneered Christians i' this
country. They look as spic-span, and as glossy, and just the richt
shade o' colour, and bonnily grained, and a' that--till ye get ahint
'em, and then ye see that, saving a thin bit o' facing, they're just
common deal, like ither folk. Ay, and it's maistly the warst bits o'
the deal as is used up ahint the veneer. It is, sae! Ye see, 'tis no
meant to last, but only to sell. And there's a monie folks 'll gi'e the
best price for sic-like, and fancy they ha'e getten the true thing. But
I'm thinkin' the King 'll no gi'e the price. His eyes are as a flame o'
fire, and they'll see richt through siccan rubbish, and burn it up."

"And Mr Liversedge, I suppose, is the real mahogany?"

"He is sae: and he's a gey awkward way of seeing ahint thae bits o'
veneered stuff, and finding out they're no worth the money. And they
dinna like him onie better for 't."

"But I hope he does not make a mistake the other way, Sam, and take the
real thing for the veneer?"

"You trust him for that. He was no born yestre'en. There's a hantle o'
folk makes that blunder, though."

Away went Sam for the kettle. When he brought it back, he said,--"Miss
Cary, ye'll mind Annie Crosthwaite, as lives wi' auld Mally?"

Ah, did I not remember Annie Crosthwaite?--poor, fragile, pretty spring
flower, that some cruel hand plucked and threw away, and men trod on the
bemired blossom as it lay in the mire, and women drew their skirts aside
to keep from touching the torn, soiled petals? "Yes, Sam," I said, in a
low voice.

"Ay, the minister brought yon