ouble he caused, and not only that, but he was an old fogy,
essentially and pre-eminently--and his name was Sir Maunder Meddleby.
This worthy baronet, one of the first of a newly invented order, came
in his sled stuffed with goose-feathers (because he was too fat to ride,
and no wheels were yet known on the hill tracks) to talk about some
exchange of land with his old friend, our De Wiche-halse. The baron and
the baronet had been making a happy day of it. Each knew pretty well
exactly what his neighbour's little rashness might be hoped to lead to,
and each in his mind was pretty sure of having the upper hand of it.
Therefore both their hearts were open--business being now dismissed,
and dinner over--to one another. They sat in a beautiful place, and drew
refreshment of mind through their outward lips by means of long reeden
tubes with bowls at their ends, and something burning.

Clouds of delicate vapour wandered round and betwixt them and the sea;
and each was well content to wonder whether the time need ever come
when he must have to think again. Suddenly a light form flitted over
the rocks, as the shadows flit; and though Frida ran away for fear of
interrupting them, they knew who it was, and both, of course, began to
think about her.

The baron gave a puff of his pipe, and left the baronet to begin. In
course of time Sir Maunder spoke, with all that breadth and beauty of
the vowels and the other things which a Devonshire man commands, from
the lord lieutenant downward.

"If so be that 'ee gooth vor to ax me, ai can zay wan thing, and wan
oney."

"What one thing is it, good neighbour? I am well content with her as she
is."

"Laikely enough. And 'e wad be zo till 'e zeed a zummut fainer."

"I want to see nothing finer or better than what we have seen just now,
sir."

"There, you be like all varthers, a'most! No zort o' oose to advaise
'un."

"Nay, nay! Far otherwise. I am not by any means of that nature. Sir
Maunder Meddleby, I have the honour of craving your opinion."

Sir Maunder Meddleby thought for a while, or, at any rate, meant to
be thinking, ere ever he dared to deliver himself of all his weighty
judgment.

"I've a-knowed she, my Lord Witcher, ever since her wore that haigh. A
purty wanch, and a peart one. But her wanteth the vinish of the coort.
Never do no good wi'out un, whan a coomth, as her must, to coorting."

This was the very thing De Wichehalse was afraid to hear of. He had
lived so mil