Coom up, Brownie!" I humbly entreated that the ill-used mass might be allowed to sprawl in undisturbed misery.
"Thorley!" exclaimed Mr.Mercer, laying his finger significantly against the side of his unpretending nose.
I had not the faintest comprehension of my revered uncle-in-law's meaning; but I said, "O, indeed!" with the accents of admiration.
"Thorley's Condiment," said my uncle.

"You'll see some fine animate at the Cattle-show; but if you see a two-year-old ox to beat him, my name is not Joe Mercer." After this I had to pay my respects to numerous specimens of the bovine race, all more or less prostrate under the burden of superabundant flesh, all seeming to cry aloud for the treatment of some Banting of the agricultural world.
After we had "done" the cattle-sheds, with heroic resignation on my part, and with enthusiasm on the part of Mr.Mercer, we went a long way to see some rarities in the way of mutton, which commodity was to be found cropping the short grass on a distant upland.
With very little appreciation of the zoological varieties, and with the consciousness that my dear one was sitting in the farm-house parlour, wondering at my prolonged absence, this excursion could not be otherwise than a bore to me.

But it was a small thing to sacrifice my own pleasure for once in a way, when by so doing I might gratify the kindest of men and of uncles; so I plodded briskly across the fields with the friendly farmer.
I had my reward; for, in the course of this walk, Mr.Mercer gave me the history of poor Susan Meynell.
"I didn't care to talk about the story the other night before the young lass," he said, gravely; "for her heart's so full of pity and tenderness, pretty dear, that any tale such as that is like to upset her.

But the story's known to almost all the folks in these parts; so there's no particular reason against my telling it to you.

I've heard my poor mother talk of Susan Meynell many a time.