a dozen or more small tables, covered with
white cloths, and two score at least of young people eating bread and
cream and laughing. The landlady, a broad woman in a blue print gown,
and large apron, came forward.

"Why, Miss Sarah, I'd nigh 'pon given you up. Your table's been spread
this hour, an' at last I was forced to ask some o' the young folks if
you was dead or no."

"Why should I be dead more than another?"

"Well, well--in the midst o' life, we're told. 'Tisn' only the ripe
apples that the wind scatters. He that comes by your side to-day is
but twin-brother to him that came wi' you the first time I mind 'ee,
seemin' but yesterday. Eh, Miss Sarah, but I envied 'ee then, sittin'
wi' hand in hand, an' but one bite taken out o' your bread an' cream;
but I was just husband-high myself i' those days, an' couldn't make
the men believe it."

"Mary Ann Jacobs," Miss Sarah broke out, "if 'twas not for the quality
of your cream, I'd go a-mayin' elsewhere, for I can truly say I hate
your way of talkin' from the bottom of my soul."

"Sarah," said John, wiping his mouth as he finished his bread and
cream, "I'm a glum man, as you well know; an' why Providence drowned
poor Jim, when it might have taken his twin image that hadn' half his
mouth--speech, is past findin' out. But 'tis generally allowed that
the grip o' my hand is uncommon like what Jim's used to be; an' when I
gets home to-night, the first thing my old woman'll be sure to ask is
'Did 'ee give Sarah poor Jim's hand-clasp?'--an' what to say I shan't
know, unless you honours me so far."

"'Tis uncommon good of Maria," said the woman simply, and stole her
thin hand into his horny palm. She had done so, in answer to the same
speech, more than twenty times.

"Not at all," said John.

His fingers closed over hers, and rested so. All but a few of the
mayers had risen from the table, and were romping and chasing each
other back to the boats, for the majority were shop-girls and
apprentices, and must be back in time for business. But Miss Sarah was
in no hurry.

"Not yet," she entreated, as John's grasp began to relax. He tightened
it again and waited, while she leant back, breathing short, with
half-closed eyes.

At length she said he might release her.

"I'm sure 'tis uncommon kind of Maria," she repeated.

"I don't see where the kindness comes in. Maria can have as good any
day o' the year, an' don't appear to value it to that extent."

They walked ba