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Stone tables occupied the two other sides, on which were ranged a number of wide shallow pans of good milk. In the extreme corner at right angles with the door at the head of the stairs was another entrance, a small open door in a Gothic frame, which opened on another and shorter flight of steps, cut in the rock and washed by the river, which sometimes rose and beat against the cellar-door for admission, beat so oft and importunately as to wear away the oak where it met the floor.

It was nearly breakfast time. Long rows of wooden bowls and trenchers were ranged on the white kitchen-table. The oatmeal porridge was ready to pour out. The cook ran short of milk. Through a window overlooking the yard she espied Jabez, whip in hand, driving a biped team of play-horses.

“Jabez, Jabez Clegg!” she called out at the pitch of her voice, “come hither.”

Down went the reins, and the prancing steeds proceeded without a driver.

“Fetch a can of milk from the cellar, Jabez; an’ look sharp. an’ see as yo’ dunna drink none!”