serious with offended dignity as he attempted
to explain.

"'Tis my wife, Master Constable," he said.

"Marry, the new one?" inquired Swallow.

"'Tis not the old one, Master Swallow," replied the old hypocrite,
wiping away a forced tear. "Poor soul, she's gone, I know not where."

"I' faith, I trow she's still cooking, landlord," consolingly replied
the constable, with tearful mien, pointing slyly downward for the
benefit of Buzzard and steadying himself with difficulty on the cask.

"Bless Matilde," said the landlord as he wiped his eyes again, "I had a
hard time to fill her place."

"Yea, truly," chuckled Swallow in Buzzard's ear, between draughts,
"three long months from grave to altar."

"A good soul, a good soul, Master Swallow," continued the landlord, with
the appearance of deep affliction.

"And a better cook, landlord," said Swallow, sadly. "Odsbud, she knew a
gooseberry tart. Patch your old wife's soul to your new wife's face, and
you'll be a happy man, landlord. Here's a drop to her."

"Thank ye, Master Constable," replied the landlord, much affected. He
looked well to the filling of the flagon in his hand, again wiped a tear
from his eye and took a deep draught to the pledge of

"The old one!"

Swallow, with equal reverence, and with some diplomacy, placed his
flagon to his lips with the pledge of

"The new one!"

Buzzard, who had not been heard from for some time, roused sufficiently
to realize the situation, and broke out noisily on his part with

"The next one!"

A startled expression pervaded the landlord's face as he realized the
meaning of Buzzard's words. He glanced woefully toward the kitchen-door,
lest the new wife might have overheard.

"Peace, Buzzard!" Swallow hastened to command, reprovingly. "Would ye
raise a man's dead wife? Learn discretion from thy elders, an thou
hop'st to be a married man."

"Marry, I do not hope," declared Buzzard, striking the table with his
clenched hand. He had no time for matrimony while the cups were
overflowing.

There was a quick, imperative knock at the door. The constable, Buzzard
and the landlord, all started up in confusion and fear.

"Thieves," stammered Swallow, faintly, from behind the cask, from which
he had dismounted at the first sign of danger. "They are making off with
thy tit-bit-of-a-wife, landlord."

"Be there thieves in the neighbourhood, Master Constable?" whispered the
landlord, in consternation.

"Why should his Majest