"Here's a mug o' small," said Mrs. Fennel. "Small, we call it,
though, to be sure, 'tis only the first wash o' the combs."

"No," said the stranger, disdainfully; "I won't spoil your first
kindness by partaking o' your second.

"Certainly not," broke in Fennel. "We don't increase and multiply
every day, and I'll fill the mug again." He went away to the dark
place under the stairs where the barrel stood. The shepherdess
followed him.

"Why should you do this?" she said, reproachfully, as soon as they
were alone. "He's emptied it once, though it held enough for ten
people; and now he's not contented wi' the small, but must needs
call for more o' the strong! And a stranger unbeknown to any of
us! For my part, I don't like the look o' the man at all."

"But he's in the house, my honey, and 'tis a wet night, and a
christening. Daze it, what's a cup of mead more or less? There'll
be plenty more next bee-burning."

"Very well--this time, then," she answered, looking wistfully at
the barrel. "But what is the man's calling, and where is he one
of, that he should come in and join us like this?"

"I don't know. I'll ask him again."

The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by the
stranger in cinder gray was effectually guarded against this time
by Mrs. Fennel. She poured out his allowance in a small cup, keeping