what you sees! The girl's took by that haughty,
stuck-up fellow, wot despises his own father,
'cos he wan't born a lord? Is that it?"

"Well, that's a little of it," replied his wife.
"I don't think but 'tis all on his side. Why,
when they passed, just now, the young squire
didn't give her so much as a look!"

"/ see. Do you think, old 'oman, nobody
has eyes in their heads but you? He doon't care
a rusty nail for her. That's how I reads it,"
said Mr. Taffey.

"You reads it upside down, then," replied
his helpmate; "or p'raps you doon't read far
enough. That means, he do like the girl; that
he's afeerd of's father; that Mr, Rochford knows
it, and likes to let the child see he does. Then,
they do say that Mr. Rochford an't best friends
with his brother. Now, he's the squire's
favourite, and if there come any terrible to-do
between the father and t'other, which's
temper's as bad, one as t'other," explained Mrs.
Taffey, "Mr. Rochford might come for to be
squire of Llbwyddcoed; and if Katy——"

"That's like readin' to the end of the vollum,
and a little furder," replied Mr. Taffey. "Well,
well, the long and short of it's this: I 'ont
have these town swells— no, narrer one of 'em,
squire or lord—a-dancing 'bout our Katy. I'm
going up to squire's to morrow— you heerd'n
ask me— about Ten-tree Meadow, and if I
don't tell'n—"

"Never be such a noggerhead!" exclaimed
his wife, in great alarm. "Squire have been
very bad lately, that's certain. Something
have gone wrong, making his furies worse than
they was ever know'd to be. Nobody's sure of
him, poor gentleman. One moment as smooth
as— as butter, the next like a mad thing.
Don't think of speaking to him— now don't ye,
Edward."

"Take the admonition, O vicine (that is, O
my neighbour, whence 'vicinity')," piped a
small voice at Mr. Taffey's elbow. It was that
of Mr. David Morgan Apreece, the village
schoolmaster. "Isn't she your 'placens uxor'?"

"Well, she's summot in that line o'
business," replied Mr. Taffey, guardedly;
"'specially when the wind's nor'-east. We was just
talking of the squire. My missis have heerd
he's been in his tempers, horrid."

"Let him get another wife," said Mr.
Apreece, decisively.

"A wife!"

"While my lady lived," continued the schoolmaster,
"the squire's tantrums were few, and
over directly. They never got beyond her.
She caught 'em, like rats, or such vermin, and
turned 'em out where they couldn't hurt anybody.
My wife called her the squire's temper-trap."

"I've seen her shut him up," said Mr. Taffey,
"in less than half a jiffy! She only up with
her hand. Curiousest thing I ever see! I
wanted to try it on my missis, but she doon't
give a man a chance."

"Get the squire married, and all's right
again," said Mr. Apreece.

"Well, I'm a-goin' up to hall to-morrow,"
said Mr. Taffey, "and, if squire asks my
opinion on the pint o' marriage, I'll give't him hot
and strong. I can't begin the subject, 'cos
it doon't belong to Ten-tree Meadow!"

"Do your best, then," said Mr. Apreece,
laughing. "Here I must leave you, neighbours."

II.

As they neared the little farm-house, a figure
that had been dimly noticed flitting— let us
rather say, lurking— among the trees came to
light, in the stalwart person of young Thomas
Fullafield. Even in his well-brushed velveteen
coat, and waistcoat of a pattern so rich and
varied that it might have passed for an attempt
to epitomise the flora of South Wales, Thomas
looked every cubic inch the lout he was. That
he was in love with Katy, and had as much
hope of winning her as of allying himself with
the reigning house of Britain, was written legibly
upon his broad face.

Sharp-sighted Mrs. Taffey probably knew
that, and, if she did not warn off the unlucky
Thomas, her reasons were threefold. The
matter had not been presented to her official
notice. The attempt by a person of Mr.
Fullafield's mental calibre and general style to win
such a fay as Katy deserved all the punishment
disappointment could entail. Finally, the
rumour that sturdy Thomas Fullafield, whose
fistic prowess was county-wide, was keeping
company (or persuading himself that he did so)
with Katy Taffey, was serviceable in warning off
many troublesome youths inclined to venture too
dangerously near that pretty Catherine-wheel.

Thomas, however, was human. He was also
practical. Unlike those troubadours who
preferred obdurate mistresses— else what would
become of their melodious despair?— Mr. Fullafield
saw no fun in unrequited passion. He had now
been for nearly two years dancing— or, to speak
more accurately, prowling— about Miss Taffey.
Jokes, he had reason to apprehend, were being
cut at his expense. Thomas had resolved to
bring matters to a crisis of some sort; and,
accordingly, throwing an extra amount of
splendour into his attire, and of sullenness
(meant for determination) into his broad visage,
he marched, as we have seen, upon the foe.

At the first sight of the vanguard— Katy—
Thomas was thrown into such disorder, that
he fell back upon the plantation, but, rallying,
was the first to commence the action.

"Mornin', miss."

"Good morning, Mr. Thomas," said Katy,
showing her pearly teeth in such wise that
Thomas's teeth danced in his head. "You'll
dine with us? Father's just behind." And
she vanished into the house.

Thomas encountered the main body with his
usual duck and salutation:

"Mornin', Mrs. Taffey. Mornin', Mr. Taffey."

Greetings exchanged, Mrs. Taffey remarked
(as though his coming were a matter of course),
"You'll take a snap with us, Mr. Thomas?"
And, without waiting for an answer, followed
her daughter.

A dreadful feeling that this one, of many
"snaps," might be his final one in that house,