no idea of the extreme notions of rigid propriety upon
which Miss Seraphina conducted her business, nor of the explanation of
the large proportion of successful weddings in which the lady
mantua-maker had played the part of subordinate providence.

Indeed, certain of the light-minded youth of Eden Valley called the
parlour with the faded red velvet chairs by the name of "Little
Heaven"--because so many marriages had been made there.

CHAPTER XXVI

PERFIDY, THY NAME IS WOMAN!

Old Robert Anderson of Birkenbog was known to me by sight--a huge,
jovial, two-ply man, chin and waistcoat alike testifying to good cheer.
He wore a large horse-shoe pin in his unstiffened stock. A watch that
needed an inch-thick chain to haul up its sturdy Nuremburg-egg build,
strained the fob on his right side, as if he carried a mince-pie
concealed there. His laugh dominated the market-place, and when he stood
with his legs wide apart pouring a sample of oats slowly from one hand
into the palm of the other, his red face with the cunning quirks in it
had always a little gathering of admirers, eager for the next
high-spiced tale. He had originally come from the English border, and in
his "burr" and accent still bore token of that nationality.

Nevertheless, he had his admirers, some of them fervent as well as
constant.

Cochrane of the Holm would be there, his hand on the shoulder of
Blethering Johnny from the Dinnance. These two always laughed before a
word was uttered. They thought Birkenbog so funny that everything he
said was side-splitting even before he had said it.

I remember being a great deal impressed myself by Old Birkenbog. He was
a wonderful horseman as a boy, and when he came to the market alone he
rode a big black horse of which even the head ostler stood in awe in the
yard of the King's Arms. Once he had thrashed a robber who had assailed
him on his way to pay his rent, and had brought him into town trotting
cross-handed at his horse's tail, the captive of his loaded whip and
stout right arm. It is doubtful if this draggled Dick Turpin, lying in
Bridewell, appreciated Birkenbog's humour quite so much as did Cochrane
and Blethering Jock when he told them the story afterwards.

If I had any common-sense I might have seen that Birkenbog was not a
safe man to trouble in the matter of an only daughter, without the most
serious intentions in the world. But, truth to tell, I never thought of
him knowing, which was in it