his cupboard--filled it
with water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside
the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl;
but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him away.

"Is it you, Sarah?"

"Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?"

"No; I shall not be in to-night; I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the
doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."

He returned.

"You have your household in proper order," observed Malone approvingly,
as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent, he
assiduously turned the mutton chops. "You are not under petticoat
government, like poor Sweeting, a man--whew! how the fat spits! it has
burnt my hand--destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I,
Moore--there's a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy--you and I
will have no gray mares in our stables when we marry."

"I don't know; I never think about it. If the gray mare is handsome and
tractable, why not?"

"The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?"

"There is a glassful. Taste it. When Joe Scott and his minions return
they shall have a share of this, provided they bring home the frames
intact."

Malone waxed very exultant over the supper. He laughed aloud at trifles,
made bad jokes and applauded them himself, and, in short, grew
unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before.
It is time, reader, that you should have some idea of the appearance of
this same host. I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at table.

He is what you would probably call, at first view, rather a
strange-looking man; for he is thin, dark, sallow, very foreign of
aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. It appears
that he spends but little time at his toilet, or he would arrange it
with more taste. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, that
they have a southern symmetry, clearness, regularity in their
chiselling; nor does a spectator become aware of this advantage till he
has examined him well, for an anxious countenance and a hollow, somewhat
haggard, outline of face disturb the idea of beauty with one of care.
His eyes are large, and grave, and gray; their expression is intent and
meditative, rather searching than soft, rather thoughtful than genial.
When he parts his lips in a smile, his physiognomy is agreeable--not
that it is frank or cheerful even then, but you feel the influence of a
certain s