"That you both sup with me."

"Done for myself. What say you, Bill?"

The youth gave a sad assent, and the rattling youth proceeded:--

"The best cure of grief is eating. Love is a sort of pleasant grief.
Many a case of affliction have I seen mended by a beefsteak. Fish
is better. Get a lover to eat, rouse up his appetites, and, to the
same extent, you lessen his affections. Hot suppers keep down the
sensibilities; and, gran'pa, after ours, to-night, you shall have
the fiddle. If I don't make her speak to you to-night, my name's
Brag, and you need never again believe me."

And the good-humored youth, gathering up his canes, led the way to
the hills, slowly followed by his two less elastic companions.






CHAPTER XIII.

THE HISTORY OF A FAILURE.