“What ever can it be?” says one of the maidens with an air of profound amazement.
One venturesome damsel goes to the door “Why, it's a young man!” she says, with overpowering astonishment.
The unexpected creature enters the kitchen, followed by a longish line of similar apparitions. They seat themselves on the table, on the skemmels, on the stools between the spinners—anywhere, everywhere.
What sport ensues! what story-telling! what laughing! what singing!
Ralph comes downstairs, and is hailed with welcomes on all hands. He is called upon for a song. Yes, he can sing. He always sang in the old days. He must sing now.
“I'll sing you something I heard in Lancaster,” he says.
“What about—the Lancashire witches?”
“Who writ it—little Monsey?”
“No, but a bigger man than Monsey,” said Ralph with a smile.
“He would be a mite if he were no bigger than the schoolmaster,” put in that lady of majestic stature, Liza Branthwaite.