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"Because it wur meant so. If we'd bin meant fur masters d'you think we'd have bin made so liddle and dentical like?"椼­¥¢ì¯î¥

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"Yes," replied Holgrave; "and enough too, I think, for any reasonable man at one time."Ô㤥

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"Well, Alice," he said huskily.±¤ó¥¾Òª¤

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"Not much, 'squire.—Stephen Holgrave, indeed, has got married, and, I'll warrant me, there will be a fine to do about it; for he has married a nief, and you know my lord is very particular about these matters:—he told me, no longer ago than just before he went away this last time, that he would not abate a jot of his due, in the marriages or services of his bond-folk. To be sure the lass is sister of the monk who now shrieves the castle, and, as my lord thinks much of Holgrave, it may all blow over."¤¥Á¥È

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The year wore on. Kimberley and Ladysmith were relieved. Rye hung out its flags, and sang "Dolly Grey" louder than ever. Then Mafeking was saved, and a bonfire was lit up at Leasan House, in which a couple of barns and some stables were accidentally involved. Everyone wore penny medallion portraits of officers—Roberts and Baden-Powell were the favourites at Odiam, which nearly came to blows with Burntbarns over the rival merits of French. While Reuben himself bought a photograph of Kitchener in a red, white, and blue frame.Ϋ©

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