‘Now, husband, if you ain’t too tired, just lend a hand to draw the table out.’

‘Nay,’ said I, ‘let him rest, and let me help.’

‘No,’ said William, rising.

‘Sit still,’ said his wife to me.

The table set, in due time we all found ourselves with plates before us.

‘You see what we have,’ said Coulter—‘salt pork, ryebread, and pudding. Let me help you. I got this pork of the squire; some of his last year’s pork, which he let me have on account. It isn’t quite so sweet as this year’s would be; but I find it hearty enough to work on, and that’s all I eat for. Only let the rheumatiz and other sicknesses keep clear of me, and I ask no flavours or favours from any. But you don’t eat of the pork!’

‘I see,’ said the wife, gently and gravely, ‘that the gentleman knows the difference between this year’s and last year’s pork. But perhaps he will like the pudding?’

I summoned up all my self-control, and smilingly assented to the proposition of the pudding, without by my looks casting any reflections upon the pork. But, to tell the truth, it was quite impossible for me (not being ravenous, but only a little hungry at the time) to eat of the latter. It had a yellowish crust all round it, and was rather rankish, I thought, to the taste. I observed, too, that the dame did not eat of it, though she suffered some to be put on her plate, and pretended to be busy with it when Coulter looked that way. But she ate of the rye-bread, and so did I.

‘Now, then, for the pudding,’ said Coulter. ‘Quick, wife; the squire sits in his sitting-room window, looking far out across the fields. His timepiece is true.’

‘He don’t play the spy on you, does he?’ said I.

‘Oh, no!—I don’t say that. He’s a good enough man. He gives me work. But he’s particular. Wife, help the gentleman. You see, sir, if I lose the squire’s work, what will become of—’ and, with a look for which I honoured humanity, with sly significance he glanced towards his wife; then, a little changing his voice, instantly continued—‘that fine horse I am going to buy.’

‘I guess,’ said the dame, with a strange, subdued sort of inefficient pleasantry—‘I guess that fine horse you sometimes so merrily dream of will long stay in the squire’s stall. But sometimes his man gives me a Sunday ride.’

‘A Sunday ride!’ said I.

‘You see,’ resumed Coulter, ‘wife loves to go to church; but the nighest is four miles off, over yon snowy hills. So she can’t walk it; and I can’t carry her in my arms, though I have carried her upstairs before now. But, as she says, the squire’s man sometimes gives her a lift on the road and for this cause it is that I speak of a horse I am going to have one of these fine sunny days. And already, before having it, I have christened it “Martha”. But what am I about? Come, come, wife! the pudding! Help the gentleman, do! The squire! the squire!—think of the squire! and help round the pudding. There, one—two—three mouthfuls must do me. Goodbye, wife. Goodbye, sir. I’m off.’

And, snatching his soaked hat, the noble poor man hurriedly went out into the soak and the mire.

I suppose now, thinks I to myself, that Blandmour would poetically say he goes to take a poor man’s saunter.

‘You have a fine husband,’ said I to the woman, as we were now left together.