stmas Day," said 'Bias. "I reckon he counted on that,--that
Middlecoat, I mean."

"Eh? . . . Mr Middlecoat--"

"Saw him takin' his leave, not above three minutes ago."

"You,--you saw him taking his leave?"

"Stridin' down the hill, angry as a bull," Cai assured her.

"He's a dreadful man to have for a neighbour," confessed Mrs Bosenna,
recovering grip on her composure. "The way he threatens and bullies!"

"I'll Middlecoat him, if he gives me but half a chance!" swore 'Bias.

"If I'd known either of you was in hail. . . . But I reckoned you'd both
be countin' this for a Sunday."

"Christmas Day isn't Sunday, not more'n once in seven years," objected
'Bias.

"It's Friday this year," said Cai, with simple conviction.

"Fiddlestick!" retorted 'Bias. "You can't make it out to be like an
ordinary Friday--I defy you. There's a--a _feelin'_ about the day."

"It feels like Friday to me," maintained Cai.

But here Mrs Bosenna interposed. "'Twon't feel like Christmas to _me_
then if you two start arguin'. 'Peace and goodwill' was the motto, as I
thought; but I don't see much of either abroad this afternoon."

The pair started guiltily and avoided each other's eyes. Many a time in
distant ports they had talked together of Christmas in England and of
Christmas fare--the goose, the plum-pudding. They had promised
themselves a rare dinner to celebrate their first Christmas in England,
and it had come to--what? To a dull meal eaten apart, served by a Mrs
Bowldler on the verge of tears, and by a Palmerston frankly ravaged by
woe. It had happened--happened past recall, and as Mrs Bowldler had
more than once observed in the course of the morning, the worst was not
over yet. "For," as she said, "out of two cold geese and two cold
puddings I'll trouble you this next week for your entrays and what-not."

"What was Middlecoat's business, ma'am?--makin' so bold," inquired
'Bias.

"Oh!" she answered quickly, "he's a terrible young man! Wants his own
way in everything, like most farmers, and turns violent when he can't
get it. . . . He came about next week's sale, among other things."

"What sale, ma'am?"

"Why, surely you must have seen? The bills have been out for days.
Squire Willyams is gettin' rid of his land this side of the stream,
right down from here to the railway station. Fifty acres you may call
it; the most of it waste or else coppice,--and coppice don't pay for
cuttin'. You've almost to go down