"Seventy-one," said the agent.

"Eighty!" roared Pickering.

"Eighty-one!" nodded the agent.

"The reserve is off," interposed the auctioneer, and again the surrounding farmers guffawed, as the mare had already gone to twenty pounds beyond her value.

Pickering swallowed his rage with an effort. He turned to Bolland.

"That's an offset for my hard words the other day," he said.

But the farmer thrust aside the proffered olive branch.

"Once a fule, always a fule," he growled. Pickering, though anything but a fool in business, took the ungracious remark pleasantly enough.

"He ought to sing a rare hymn this afternoon," he cried. "I've put a score of extra sovereigns in his pocket, and he doesn't even say 'Thank you.' Well, it's the way of the world. Who's dry?"

This invitation caused an adjournment to the "Black Lion." The auctioneer knew his clients.

Pickering's allusion to the hymn was not made without knowledge. At three o'clock, on a part of the green farthest removed from the thronged stalls and the blare of a steam-driven organ, Bolland and a few other earnest spirits surrounded the stentorian preacher and held an open-air service. They selected tunes which everybody knew and, as a result, soon attracted a crowd of older people, some of whom brought their children.

Martin, of course, was in the gathering.

Meanwhile, along the line of booths, a couple of leather-lunged men were singing old-time ballads, dealing for the most part with sporting incidents. They soon became the centers of two packed audiences, mainly young men and boys, but containing more than a sprinkling of girls. The ditties were couched in "broad Yorkshire"--sometimes too broad for modern taste. Whenever a particularly crude stanza was bawled forth a chuckle would run through the audience, and coppers in plenty were forthcoming for printed copies of the song, which, however, usually fell short of the blunt phraseology of the original. The raucous ballad singers took risks feared by the printer.

Mrs. Saumarez, leading Angle by the hand, thought she would like to hear one of these rustic melodies, and halted. Instantly the vendor changed his cue. The lady might be the wife of a magistrate. Once he got fourteen days as a rogue and a vagabond at the instance of just such another interested spectator, who put the police in action.

Quickly surfeited by the only half-understood humor of a song describing the sale of a dead horse, she wandered on, and soon came across the preacher and his lay helpers.

To her surprise she saw John Bolland standing bareheaded in the front rank, and with him Martin. She had never pictured the keen-eyed, crusty old farmer in this guise. It amused her. The minister began to offer up a prayer. The men hid their faces in their hats, the women bowed reverently, and fervent e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns punctuated each pause in the preacher's appeal.

"I do believe!"

"Amen! Amen!"

"Spare us, O Lord!"

Mrs. Saumarez stared at the gathering with real wonderment.

"C'est incroyable!" she murmured.

"What are they doing, mamma?" cried Angle, trying to guess why Martin had buried his eyes in his cap.

"They are praying, dearest. It reminds one of the Covenanters. It really is very touching."

"Who were the Covenanters?"

"When you are older, ma belle, you will read of them in history."

That was Mrs. Saumarez's way. She treated her daughter's education as a matter for governesses whom she did not employ and masters to whose control Angle would probably never be entrusted.

The two entered the White House. There they found Mrs. Bolland, radiant in a black silk dress, a bonnet trimmed with huge roses, and a velvet dolman, the wings of which were thrown back over her portly shoulders to permit her the better to press all comers to partake of her hospitality.

Several women and one or two men were seated at the big table, while people were coming and going constantly.

It fl.u.s.tered and gratified Mrs. Bolland not a little to receive such a distinguished visitor.

"Eh, my leddy," she cried, "I'm glad to see ye. Will ye tek a chair? And t' young leddy, too? Will ye hev a gla.s.s o' wine?"

This was the recognized formula. There was a decanter of port wine on the sideboard, but most of the visitors partook of tea or beer. One of the men drew himself a foaming tankard from a barrel in the corner.

Mrs. Saumarez smiled wistfully.

"No wine, thank you," she said; "but that beer looks very nice. I'll have some, if I may."

Not until that moment did Mrs. Bolland remember that her guest was a reputed teetotaller. So, then, Mrs. Atkinson, proprietress of the "Black Lion," was mistaken.

"That ye may, an' welcome," she said in her hearty way.

Angle murmured something in French, but her mother gave a curt answer, and the child subsided, being, perhaps, interested by the evident amazement and admiration she evoked among the country people. To-day, Angle was dressed in a painted muslin, with hat and sash of the same material, long black silk stockings, and patent-leather shoes. She looked elegantly old-fashioned, and might have walked bodily out of one of Caran d'Ache's sketches of French society.

Suddenly she bounced up like an india-rubber ball.

"Tra la!" she cried. "V'l mon cher Martin!"

The prayer meeting had ended, and Martin was speeding home, well knowing who had arrived there.

Angle ran to meet him.

"She's a rale fairy," whispered Mrs. Summersgill, mistress of the Dale End Farm. "She's rigged out like a pet doll."

"Ay," agreed her neighbor. "D'ye ken wheer they coom frae?"

"Frae Lunnon, I reckon. They're staying wi' t' Miss Walkers. That's t'

m.u.t.h.e.r, a Mrs. Saumarez, they call her, but they say she's a Jarman baroness."

"Well, bless her heart, she hez a rare swallow for a gill o' ale."

This was perfectly true. The lady had emptied her gla.s.s with real gusto.

"I was so hot and tired," she said, with an apologetic smile at her hostess. "Now, I can admire your wonderful store of good things to eat,"

and she focussed the display through gold-rimmed eyegla.s.ses.

Truly, the broad kitchen table presented a spectacle that would kill a dyspeptic. A cold sirloin, a portly ham, two pairs of chickens, three brace of grouse--these solids were mere garnishings to dishes piled with currant cakes, currant loaves and plain bread cut and b.u.t.tered, jam turnovers, open tarts of many varieties, "fat rascals," Queen cakes, sponge cakes--battalions and army corps of all the sweet and toothsome articles known to the culinary skill of the North.

"I'm feared, my leddy, they won't suit your taste," began Mrs. Bolland, but the other broke in eagerly:

"Oh, don't say that! They look so good, so wholesome, so different from the French cooking we weary of in town. If I were not afraid of spoiling my dinner and earning a scolding from Franoise I would certainly ask for some of that cold beef and a slice of bread and b.u.t.ter."