never seen a young un as so took his fancy.

That winter it grew quite the recognized thing, when they had
gathered of a night round the fire in the Sylvester Arms, with
Tammas in the centre, old Jonas Maddox on his right, Rob
Saunderson of the Holt on the left, and the others radiating away
toward the sides, for some one to begin with:

"Well, and what o' oor Bob, Mr. Thornton?"

To which Tammas would always make reply:

"Oh, yo' ask Sam'l there. He'll tell yo' better'n me, "--and would
forthwith plunge, himself, into a yarn.

And the way in which, as the story proLeeded, Tupper of
Swinsthwaite winked at Ned Hoppin of Fellsgarth, and Long
Kirby, the smith, poked Jem Burton, the publican, in the ribs, and
Sexton Ross said, "Ma word, lad!" spoke more eloquently than
many words.

One man only never joined in the chorus of admiration. Sitting
always alone in the background, little M'Adam would listen with
an incredulous grin on his sallow face.

"Oh, ma certes! The devil's in the dog! It's no cannie ava!" he
would continually exclaim, as Tammas told his tale.

In the Daleland you rarely see a stranger's face. Wandering in the
wild country about the twin dales at the time of this story, you