practice--not a bad practice. We have had it a bit earlier to-day
for hospitality's sake--that's all.'

I had nothing particular to say to this, though I was thinking a
great deal. From time to time I stole a look at my companion. His
coat was black, and so was his waistcoat; neckcloth he had none,
his strong full throat being bare above the snow-white shirt. He
wore drab-coloured knee-breeches, grey worsted stockings (I
thought I knew the maker), and strong-nailed shoes. He carried
his hat in his hand, as if he liked to feel the coming breeze
lifting his hair. After a while, I saw that the father took hold
of the daughter's hand, and so, they holding each other, went
along towards home. We had to cross a lane. In it were two little
children, one lying prone on the grass in a passion of crying,
the other standing stock still, with its finger in its mouth, the
large tears slowly rolling down its cheeks for sympathy. The
cause of their distress was evident; there was a broken brown
pitcher, and a little pool of spilt milk on the road.

'Hollo! Hollo! What's all this?' said the minister. 'why, what
have you been about, Tommy,' lifting the little petticoated lad,
who was lying sobbing, with one vigorous arm. Tommy looked at him
with surprise in his round eyes, but no affright--they were
evidently old acquaintances.

'Mammy's jug!' said he, at last, beginning to cry afresh.

'Well! and will crying piece mammy's jug, or pick up spilt milk?
How did you manage it, Tommy?'