from behind grandfather William, and his stooping figure formed a well-
illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. Being by trade
a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes, corduroy
breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots, graduated in tints
of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime and stone. He also
wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the elbows and shoulders
as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair of bellows: the
ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively exhibiting a
shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with small
ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. The extremely large
side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether
empty or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far
away--his breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner,
by a garden wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road--he
carried in these pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister
of sugar, a small canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of
pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat, forming the substance of his meals,
hanging up behind him in his basket among the hammers and chisels. If a
passer-by looked hard at him when he was drawing forth any of these, "My
buttery," he said, with a pinched smile.

"Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?" said
William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side table.

"Wi' all my heart," said the choir generally.

"Number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. I can mind him ever
since I was growing up a hard boy-chap."

"But he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said Michael.