The morning of Mrs Portlock’s party, and Uncle Joseph just returned from his round in the farm, to look smilingly at the preparations that were going on, and very tenderly at Sage, who looked downcast and troubled.
“Well, girls,” he cried, “how goes it? Come, old lady, let it be a good set-out, for Sage here won’t have much more chance for helping you when these holidays are over.”
“I wish she’d give the school teaching up,” said Mrs Portlock, rather fretfully, as she sat gathering her apron into pleats.
“She can give it up if she likes,” said the Churchwarden, heartily. “It’s her own whim.”
“Well, don’t you fidget, Joseph, for Sage and I will do our best.”
“Of course you will, my dears,” he said. “Here, Sage, fill me the old silver mug with ale out of number two.”
“But it is not tapped, uncle.”
“Ah!” he shouted, “who says it isn’t tapped? Why I drove the spigot in night before last on purpose to have it fine. And now, old woman, if you want any lunch, have it, and then go and pop on your black silk and bonnet, while I order round the chaise, and I’ll drive you in to town.”
“No, Joseph, no,” exclaimed Mrs Portlock, who had now gathered the whole of the bottom of her apron into pleats and let them go. “I said last night that I would not go with you any more unless you left the whip at home. I cannot bear to sit in that chaise and see you beat poor Dapple as you do.”
“But I must have a whip, old girl, or I can’t drive.”