ower, you
must remember, and besides that, as the years went on this little
ceremony ceased to be kept up. When it was "Chateau Lafitte, 1187,"
kissing Mistletoe was one thing; but when it came to "Chambertin,
1203," the lady weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds, and wore a
wig.

But, wig and all, Mistletoe had a high position in Wantley Manor. The
household was conducted on strictly feudal principles. Nobody, except
the members of the family, received higher consideration than did the
old Governess. She and the Chaplain were on a level, socially, and
they sat at the same table with the Baron. That drew the line. Old
Popham the Butler might tell little Whelpdale as often as he pleased
that he was just as good as Mistletoe; but he had to pour out
Mistletoe's wine for her, notwithstanding. If she scolded him (which
she always did if Sir Godfrey had been scolding her), do you suppose
he dared to answer back? Gracious, no! He merely kicked the two
head-footmen, Meeson and Welsby, and spoke severely to the nine
house-maids. Meeson and Welsby then made life a painful thing for the
five under-footmen and the grooms, while the nine house-maids boxed
the ears of Whelpdale the Buttons, and Whelpdale the Buttons punched
the scullion's eye. As for the scullion, he was bottom of the list;
but he could always relieve his feelings by secretly pulling the tails
of Sir Godfrey's two tame ravens, whose names were Croak James and
Croak Elizabeth. I never knew what these birds did at that; but
something, you may be sure. So you see that I was right when I said
the household was conducted on strictly feudal principles. The Cook
had a special jurisdiction of her own, and everybody was more or less
afraid of her.

Whenever Sir Godfrey had come home with new wine, and after the labels
had been pasted on the casks, then Popham, with Whelpdale beside him,
had these carefully set down in the cellar, which was a vast dim room,
the ceilings supported by heavy arches; the barrels, bins, kegs,
hogsheads, tuns, and demijohns of every size and shape standing like
forests and piled to the ceiling. And now something was wrong there.

"This 'ere's a hawful succumstence, sir," observed Whelpdale the
Buttons to his superior, respectfully.

"It is, indeed, a himbroglio," replied Popham, who had a wide command
of words, and knew it.

Neither domestic spoke again for some time. They were seated in the
buttery. The Butler crossed his right leg over