out and scold him.
Under the circumstances it would be a relief.

If Mrs. Howth's nerves had been weak, she might have supposed that
free-born serving-man seized with sudden insanity, from the sight that
met her, going into the kitchen. His dinner, set on the dresser, was
flung contemptuously on the ashes; a horrible cloud of burning grease
rushed from a dirty pint-pot on the table, and before this Joel was
capering and snorting like some red-headed Hottentot before his fetich,
occasionally sticking his fingers into the nauseous stuff, and snuffing
it up as if it were roses. He was a church-member: he could NOT be
drunk? At the sight of her, he tried to regain the austere dignity
usual to him when women were concerned, but lapsed into an occasional
giggle, which spoiled the effect.

"Where have you been," she inquired, severely, "scouring the country
like a heathen on this blessed day? And what is that you have burning?
You're disgracing the house, and strangers in it."

Joel's good-humour was proof against even this.

"I've scoured to some purpose, then. Dun't tell the mester: it'll
muddle his brains t'-night. Wait till mornin'. Squire More'll be down
his-self t' 'xplain."

He rubbed the greasy fingers into his hair, while Mrs. Howth's eyes
were fixed in dumb perplexity.

"Ye see,"--slowly, determined to make it clear to her now and
forever,--"it's water: no, t' a'n't water: it's troubled me an' Mester
Howth some time in Poke Run, atop o' 't. I hed my suspicions,--so'd
he; lay low, though, frum all women-folks. So 's I tuk a bottle down,
unbeknown, to Squire More, an' it's oil!"--jumping like a wild
Indian,--"thank the Lord fur his marcies, it's oil!"

"Well, Joel," she said, calmly, "very disagreeably smelling oil it is,
I must say."

"Good save the woman!" he broke out, sotto voce, "she's a born natural!
Did ye never hear of a shaft? or millions o' gallons a day? It's better
nor a California ranch, I tell ye. Mebbe," charitably, "ye didn't know
Poke Run's the mester's?"

"I certainly do. But I do not see what this green ditch-water is to
me. And I think, Joel,"----

"It's more to ye nor all yer States'-rights as I'm sick o' hearin' of.
It's carpets, an' bunnets, an' slithers of railroad-stock, an' some
colour on Margot's cheeks,--ye 'ed best think o' that! That's what it
is to ye! I'm goin' to take stock myself. I'm glad that gell 'll git
rest frum her mills an' her Houses o' Deviltry,--