TWELVERENE’S face lighted at my joy, but his knowledge of the gods was scientific rather than from folklore or first hand, and of course he could hardly begin to understand it.
“’Er taste so good,” I told him, bringing the jug and two cups to the fire, “but ’er tempts ’ee to drink more than ’ee reckons, and ’er wondrous warming.” I gave him what could never be written, an almost perfect imitation of the farm wife’s dialect.
He took boyish pleasure in the show.
“’Tis said ’er a good drink for brides, especial ’em that be shamefaced and shy. Put enough of ’er down old Gaffer, and I’d not trust ’en at prayer meeting. But if ’ee and me ha’ plighted our troth—”
“By the good God, I can plight mine to ever remembrance of the wonder of this day.” He was a Frenchman and not afraid of eloquence.
