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This was no other than little blink-eyed Reuben Thwaite. He was sitting muffled up in his farm wagon and singing merry snatches to keep the cold out of his lungs. Reuben had been at Carlisle over night with sundry hanks of thread, which he had sold to the linen weavers. He had found a good market by coming so far, and he was returning to Wythburn in high feckle. "What poor lad's this? Why, what!
What had before been almost a supplicating tone, gave place to a tone of secure triumph. "Liza," he said, "I'm going to bring that Robbie down a peg or two. He's been a perching himself up alongside of Ralph Ray this last back end, but I'm going to feckle him this turn." "No, Joseph; are you going to do that, though?" said Liza, with a brightening face that seemed to Mr.
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