out a glass of the same in a long stream, skilfully directed from the jug to the tumbler, so as to produce much foam without spilling a drop; and, having surveyed it for a moment opposite the candle, he took a deep draught, and then smacked his lips, drew a long breath, and refilled his glass, my mother looking on with the greatest satisfaction.
"There's nothing like this Mrs. Markham!" said he, "I always maintain that there's nothing to compare with your home-brewed ale."
"I'm sure I'm glad you like it, sir. I always look after the brewing myself, as well as the cheese and the butter—I like to have things well done, while we're about it."
"Quite right Mrs. Markham!"
"But then, Mr. Millward, you don't think it wrong to take a little wine now and then—or a little spirits either?" said my mother, as she handed a smoking tumbler of gin and water to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed that wine sat heavy on her stomach, and whose son Robert was at
