It was on a Saturday evening soon after Bill Swinton had become
convalescent. The parlor of the "Brown Cow" was filled with its
usual gathering; a peat fire glowed upon the hearth, and two tallow
candles burned somewhat faintly in the dense smoke. Mugs of beer
stood on the tables, but they were seldom applied to the lips
of the smokers, for they had to do service without being refilled
through the long evening. The silence was broken only by the short
puffs at the pipes. All were thinking over the usual topic, when
old Gideon Jones unexpectedly led their ideas into another channel.

"Oive heern," he said slowly, taking his pipe from his mouth, "as
how Nance Wilson's little gal is wuss."

"Ay, indeed!"

"So oi've heern;"

"Be she now?" and various other exclamations arose from the smokers.

Gideon was pleased with the effect he had produced, and a few
minutes later continued the subject.

"It be the empty coopbud more nor illness, I expect."

There was another chorus of assent, and a still heartier one when
he wound up the subject: "These be hard toimes surely."

Thinking that he had now done sufficient to vindicate his standing
as one of the original thinkers of the village, Gideon relapsed
into silence and smoked away gravely, with his eyes fixed on the