he little schoolmaster the merriest comrade
that ever sat with them over a glass. He had a crack for each of them,
a song, a joke, a lively touch that cut and meant no harm. They called
him "the little limber Frenchman," in allusion to a peculiarity of
gait which in the minds of the heavy-limbed mountaineers was somehow
associated with the idea of a French dancing master.

With the schoolmaster's awakening the conversation in the inn seemed
likely to take a livelier turn. Even the whistling sleet appeared to
become less fierce and terrible. True, the stalwart dalesman on the
door bench yawned and slept as before; but even Ralph's firm lower lip
began to relax, and he was never a gay and sportive elf. The rest of
the company charged their pipes afresh and called on the hostess for
more spiced ale.

"'Blessing on your heart,' says the proverb, 'you brew good ale.' It's
a Christian virtue, eh, Father?" said Monsey, addressing Matthew in
the opposite corner.

"Praise the ford as ye find it," said that sage; "I've found good yal
maks good yarn. Folks that wad put doon good yal ought to be
theirselves putten doon."

"Then you must have been hanged this many a long year, Father
Matthew," said Monsey, "for you've put down more good ale than any man
in Wythburn."

Old Matthew had to stand the laugh against himself this time. In the
midst of it he leaned over to Ralph, and, as though to cover his
discomfiture, whispered, "He's gat a lad's heart, the laal man has."

Then, with the air of one about to communicate a novel idea,--

"And sic as ye gie, sic will ye get, frae him."

"Well, well," he added aloud, "ye munnet think I cannot stand my
rackups."

The old man, despite this unexpected fall, was just beginning to show
his mettle. The sententious graybeard was never quite so happy, never
looked quite so wise, never shook his head with such an air of
good-humored consequence, never winked with such profundity of
facetiousness, as when "the laal limber Frenchman" was giving a "merry
touch." Wouldn't Monsey sing summat and fiddle to it too; aye, that he
would, Mattha knew reet weel.

"Sing!" cried the little man,--"sing! Monsieur, the dog shall try me
this conclusion. If he wag his tail, then will I sing; if he do not
wag his tail, then--then will I not be silent. What say you Laddie?"
The dog responded to the appeal with an opportune if not an
intelligent wag of that member on which so momentous an issue hung.
From on