and stood by him while the porter dropped the tester-glass into the cool
depths of cask after cask, and solemn counsel was held and grave
decisions reached. I was enchanted with one meagre, little old gentleman
of frail and refined figure, who bent over his wine with closed eyes, as
if to shut out all the sense-impressions he did not need, while the rest
waited to hear what he had to say.

"Needs a milk fining," muttered the old gentleman, with eyes shut as if
in prayer.

"Wants its back broke with a good lot of eggshell," said a short, stout
man with a snuff-colored coat, the collar well up the back of his head.

"Ach!" murmured Schmidt. "The back to be hurt with eggshell! What hath
he of meaning?"

"Pshaw!" said a third: "give it a little rest, and then the white of an
egg to every five gallons. Is it bual?"

"Is it gruel?" said our senior sarcastically.

"Wants age. A good wine for one's grandchildren," murmured my old friend
with shut eyes.

"What is it he calls gruel?" whispered Schmidt. "How nice is a picture
he makes when he shuts his eyes and the light of the candle comes
through the wine, all bright ruby, in the dark here! And ah, what is
that?" for Wholesome, who had been taking his wine in a kindly way, and
having his say with that sense of being always sure which an old taster
affects, glancing out of one of the little barred cellar-windows which