He was out this morning a-watching the fog.
"Postman," 'a said, "good-morning: give me the bag." O, yes, 'a's a
civil genteel nobleman enough.'
'Took the house for fishing, did he?'
'That's what they say, and as it can be for nothing else I suppose
it's true. But, in final, his health's not good, 'a b'lieve; he's
been living too rithe. The London smoke got into his wyndpipe, till
'a couldn't eat. However, I shouldn't mind having the run of his
kitchen.'
'And what is his name?'
'Ah--there you have me! 'Tis a name no man's tongue can tell, or
even woman's, except by pen-and-ink and good scholarship. It begins
with X, and who, without the machinery of a clock in's inside, can
speak that? But here 'tis--from his letters.' The postman with his
walking-stick wrote upon the ground,
'BARON VON XANTEN'
CHAPTER III
The day, as she had prognosticated, turned out fine; for weather-
wisdom was imbibed with their milk-sops by the children of the Exe
Vale. The impending meeting excited Margery, and she performed her
duties in her father's house with mechanical unconsciousness.
Milking, skimming, cheesemaking were done. Her father was asleep in
the settle, the milkmen and maids were gone home to their cottages,
and the clock showed a quarter to eight. She dressed herself with
care, went to the top of the garden, and looked over the stile.
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