"What, isn't it sharp, Tom?"

"Sharp, mistress, bean't nothing to it. It be terrifying sharp, and it be as keen at the back as it be at the front, and that's what I don't like, for it's risky like at the corners o' your mouth, and when a man's mouth is already two sizes too large, it's a pity to cut it bigger."

"Take another, Tom," said Mace, placing one for him.

"Thanky, mistress, that's kindy of you," said Tom. "Eh, but you be grown into a flower. Here, only t'other day, and I see thee balancing thyself on thy two pretty little pink legs, and couldn't get on wi' my work for watching thee--lest thou should fall."

"You always were very kind to me, Tom," said Mace, smiling.

"And always will be," said Tom Croftly; "for, mistress, it did my heart good to see thee stick up for the master again that old Mother Goodhugh."

"Poor weak woman!" said Mace, sadly.

"Ay, poor weak old woman; but she's got a sore heart, mistress, like as--as--some one else have as I knows on."

"Who's that, Tom?" said Mace.

"Captain Culverin Carr," said Tom, striking the table with the haft of the knife. "Ah, I don't like dressed-up jay-birds from London."

Mace was silent, but she looked at their old workman with eyes that were half alarmed, half angry, and hearing her father's voice hurriedly left the kitchen.

"Ay, so his heart is sore," muttered Tom Croftly, after a glance round to see that he had not been heard. "If I thought that ill-wishing that London spark would keep him away from here, I'd give Mother Goodhugh my biggest couple o' ducks--that girt young 'un and his brother."

Tom Croftly stopped and sighed for a long time over his bread and bacon before returning to the enjoyment of his holiday the founder did not join him, however, for a good half-hour longer, when Mace was by his side.

That was a golden day to both--a holiday indeed. No allusion was made to the departure of their visitor, neither was Gil's name mentioned; but, as if some burden had been removed from both their hearts, they seemed to have made up their minds to have one day such as they had been accustomed to in what seemed like the olden times.

With a straw hat to shade her bright face, Mace was now looking on, while the raspberry canes that had broken loose were retied to their stakes, and then she held the knife as she had a score of times in childhood while the founder went down upon his knees to take the bindings off from some freshly-grafted trees, commenting upon his work, and boasting of its superiority over the grafting done at Dame Beckley's.

Then there were the cuttings of those curious plants to see to that Gil had brought back from his last voyage, and they seemed to be progressing well, all but one that was being eaten by a grub.

Mace listened eagerly, thinking that her father would mention Gil's name now, but he went on weeding out a few interlopers before he seemed to recall whence the cuttings came, and then he frowned and turned off to another part of the garden.

The cloud passed away directly, and they were chatting merrily again or listening to Tom Croftly, who possessed a very long tongue, and had plenty to say.

"Lor', Miss Mace, look at my apple-trees, how they be a-hinging down a'ready!" cried Tom Croftly. "Look at the girt big uns lumpeting all down the boughs. I'll have to put a strod under yon branch, or a wilt be breaking down."

"They look lovely, Tom. No scarcity this year."

"Not there, mistress. It all comes o' well wassailing the trees. If there's anything I like, its a good apple-howling in due season."

"But you don't think it makes any difference, Tom?"

"Not make any differ, mistress? Why look at my trees this year."

"Oh, they are loaded enough, Tom," said Mace, smiling; "but would they not have borne as well without that noise the lads made on New Year's Eve?"

"Not they, mistress. I like the boys to come round to the orchards, and shout and go round the apple-trees in a ring," he said, stopping to hold his reaping-hook horizontally, and making a movement with his left hand, as if to complete the circle, while he closed his eyes and repeated the following doggerel, as if it were some sacred verse:--

'Stand fast, root; bear well, top; Pray the God send us a good howling crop.

Every twig apples big; Every bough apples enow; Hats full, caps full, Full quarters sacks full.'

"That's it, mistress; that brings the apples. There's a fine cluster o'

little wild strawbries here," he cried, as he "brushed," as he called it, the thistles and nettles that were springing up under the orchard trees.

"I'll bring a basket and pick them, Tom," cried Mace; and she ran quickly back to the house.

"A swap soon gets dull, master," said Tom, stopping to sharpen the broad-bladed reaping-hook he held, and gazing the while after Mace.

"Eh, but it ought to be a girt and good man, master, who has young mistress for a wife. A king wouldn't be good enough for she."

"Right, Tom," said the founder. "Hallo, what's the matter?" he cried, as Mace came running back in a state of great excitement.

"The bees, father--a swarm."

Down went Tom Croftly's hook and whet-stone, and away he and the founder ran to where the bees were in full flight, a late colony, after hanging in a pocket-shaped cluster outside their straw dome for days, having at last persuaded their queen to start.

It was a headlong flight, but not off and away, for as the founder and his man came up it was to find that the busy little insects were darting to and fro, as if bound to describe as many elongated diamonds as they could in the hot sunshine. There was a sharp angry buzzing hum in the air, and, after running into the kitchen, Tom came back with a broken poker and the brass preserving-pan, which he belaboured wildly like a gong, evidently under the belief that the bees would be charmed or stunned into repose.

"Nothing like dinging 'em well, master," he cried, as the bees darted here and there. "They won't sting thee, mistress. There, look at the pretties!" he cried. "Well done! What a cast, and as big as a May-day swarm."

This was as he saw that the queen had settled upon a pendent branch of a young plum-tree, the workers clustering round and over and under, and clinging one to the other, till there was a great insect mass, which made the bough drop lower and lower till it nearly touched the ground.

"That be the very place to have 'em, master," he cried. "Now, mistress, thou'lt take them, won't thee? It's a fine girt swarm. Ye marn't be afraid, and they won't hurt thee. I'll fetch a hive."

He trotted off, leaving father and daughter watching the great mass of bees hanging some two feet from the ground; and soon after Tom Croftly returned with a clean hive, which he busily rubbed with sugar dissolved in beer, while he held a bee-board under his arm.

"Now, mistress, art ready?" he cried.

"Nay, Tom, I'll take them myself," said the founder. "We mustn't have her stung."

He took the hive from his man, placed it beneath the great ball of insects, and gave the branch a quick sharp shake, with the result that nearly all fell into the hive. Another shake sent in the rest, so that it seemed as if they must be crushed or infuriated into stinging him to death; but, though some rose and buzzed around his head, he quietly placed the bee-board, handed to him by Tom, over the open hive, deftly reversed it, placed it under the shade of the tree, and left it there for the insects to settle in their new home.

The bees had been left but a few minutes, when, with his face lit up with smiles, the founder exclaimed, "Why, Mace, that's been a warm job.

Tom Croftly would like a mug of ale to drink success to the swarm."

"And you will have one, too, under the apple-tree, father; and--just one pipe."

"Get out!" cried the founder, "putting temptation in a weak man's way."

But he went to the large seat under the old apple-tree, that spread its longest branches over the Pool, and had just settled himself down as Mace returned with his big silver tankard, pipe, and tobacco.

"Hah! that's prime!" he said, as he seated himself in an easier position, gazing through his half-closed eyes at his luxuriant garden and the glistening surface of the Pool. "Why, here comes the parson.

Hey there, Master Peasegood: just in time!"

The stout clerk had seen the founder in his garden, and came panting up, his face seeming to grow broader as he neared the apple-tree.

"Hah!" he sighed, shaking hands as he sat down, "what weak creatures mortals are. Here have I been murmuring against the heat, and the great burden of flesh I have to bear, and all the time there is rest and refreshment waiting to be offered to me. Mace, my darling, if I were not a parson, I'd say by the hand of an angel. Thanks, child, thanks!

Cobbe, here's thy good health, man. May'st thou never be as fat as I."