meteor.

Thus the genial Goliath ale renewed the very blood in Alere's veins.

Amaryllis saw too that the deadly paleness of Amadis Iden's
cheeks--absolute lack of blood--began to give way to the faintest
colour, little more than the delicate pink of the apple-bloom, though he
could take hardly a wine-glass of Goliath. If you threw a wine-glassful
of the Goliath on the hearth it blazed up the chimney in the most
lively manner. Fire in it--downright fire! That is the test.

Amadis could scarcely venture on a wine-glassful, yet a faint pink began
to steal into his face, and his white lips grew moist. He drank deeply
of another cup.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXXII.

"LET me try," said Amadis, taking the handle of the churn from Jearje.
The butter was obstinate, and would not come; it was eleven o'clock in
the morning, and still there was the rattle of milk in the barrel, the
sound of a liquid splashing over and over. By the sounds Mrs. Iden knew
that the fairies were in the churn. Jearje had been turning for hours.

Amadis stooped to the iron handle, polished like silver by Jearje's
rough hands--a sort of skin sand-paper--and with an effort made the
heavy blue-painted barrel revolve on its axis.

Mrs. Iden, her sleeves up, looked from the dairy window into the court
where the churn stood.

"Ah, it's no use your trying," she said, "you'll only tire yourself."

Jearje, glad to stand upright a minute, said, "First-rate, measter."

Amaryllis cried, "Take care; you'd better not, you'll hurt yourself."

"Aw!--aw!" laughed Bill Nye, who was sitting on a form by the wall
under the dairy window. He was waiting to see Iden about the mowing.
"Aw!--aw! Look 'ee thur, now!"

Heavily the blue barrel went round--thrice, four times, five times; the
colour mounted into Amadis's cheeks, not so much from the labour as the
unwonted stooping; his breath came harder; he had to desist, and go and
sit down on the form beside Bill Nye.

"I wish you would not do it," said Amaryllis. "You know you're not
strong yet." She spoke as if she had been his mother or his nurse,
somewhat masterfully and reproachfully.

"I'm afraid I'm not," said poor Amadis. His chin fell and his face
lengthened--his eyes grew larger--his temples pinched; disappointment
wrung at his heart.

Convalescence is like walking in sacks; a short waddle and a fall.

"I can tell 'ee of a vine thing, measter," said Bill Nye, "as I kno