led in flakes; the rude old place was very dear
to her.

Ofttimes they sat there in winter instead of the sitting-room, drawn by
its antique homeliness. Mrs. Iden warmed elder wine, and Iden his great
cup of Goliath ale, and they roasted chestnuts and apples, while the
potatoes--large potatoes--Iden's selected specialities--were baking
buried in the ashes. Looking over her shoulder Amaryllis could see the
white drift of snow against the window, which was on a level with the
ground outside, and so got Iden to tell her stories of the deep snow in
the United States, and the thick ice, sawn with saws, or, his fancy
roaming on, of the broad and beautiful Hudson River, the river he had so
admired in his youth, the river the poets will sing some day; or of his
clinging aloft at night in the gale on the banks of Newfoundland, for he
had done duty as a sailor. A bold and adventurous man in his youth, why
did he gossip at the stile now in his full and prime of manhood?

It would be a long, long tale to tell, and even then only those who have
lived in the country and had practical experience could fully comprehend
the hopelessness of working a small farm, unless you are of a wholly
sordid nature. Iden's nature was not sordid; the very reverse. The
beginning, or one of the beginnings, of the quarrel between father and
son arose because of this; Grandfather Iden could not forgive his son
for making the place beautiful with trees and flowers.

By-and-by the baked potatoes were done, and they had supper on the old
and clumsy table, village made and unpolished, except in so far as the
stains of cooking operations had varnished it, the same table at which
"Jearje," the fogger, sat every morning to eat his breakfast, and every
evening to take his supper. What matter? George worked hard and honestly
all day, his great arms on the table, spread abroad as he ate, did not
injure it.

Great mealy potatoes, cracked open, white as the snow without, floury
and smoking; dabs of Mrs. Iden's delicious butter, a little salt and
pepper, and there was a dish for a king. The very skins were
pleasant--just a taste.

They were not always alone at these kitchen-feasts, sometimes a Flamma
from London, sometimes an Iden from over the hill, or others were there.
Iden was very hospitable--though most of his guests (family connections)
were idle folk, no good to themselves or anybody, still they were made
cordially welcome. But others, very high folk, soc