“And I’d make bold to enquire of yonder Liveloose,” said a thick, monotonous voice (a Mr. Dull’s, so Reverie informed me), “if mebbe he be referring to one of his own, or that fellow Sloth’s devilish fairy tales?  I know one yet he’ll eat again some day.”

At which remark all laughed consumedly, save Dull.

“Well, one thing Christian had, and none can deny it,” said Pliable, a little hotly, “and that was Imagination? I shan’t forget the tales he was wont to tell:  what say you, Superstition?”

Mr. Superstition lifted dark, rather vacant eyes on Pliable.  “Yes, yes,” he said:  “Flame, and sigh, and lamentation.  My God, my God, gentlemen!”

“Oo-ay, Oo-ay,” yelped the voice of Mistrust, startled out of silence.

“Oo-ay,” whistled Malice, under his breath.

“Tush, tush!” broke in Obstinate again, and snapped his fingers in the air.  “And what is this precious Imagination?  Whither doth it conduct a man, but to beggary, infamy, and the mad-house?  Look ye to it, friend Pliable!  ’Tis a devouring flame; give it but wind and leisure, the fairest house is ashes.”

“Ashes; ashes!” mocked one called Cruelty, who had more than once taken my attention with his peculiar contortions—­“talking of ashes, what of Love-the-log Faithful, Master Tongue-stump?  What of Love-the-log Faithful?”

At which Liveloose was so extremely amused, the tears stood in his eyes for laughing.

I looked round for Mistrust, and easily recognised my friend by his hare-like face, and the rage in his little active eyes.  But unfortunately, as I turned to enquire somewhat of Reverie, Liveloose suddenly paused in his merriment with open mouth; and the whole company heard my question, “But who was Love-the-log Faithful?”

I was at once again the centre of attention, and Mr. Obstinate rose very laboriously from his settle and held out a great hand to me.

“I’m pleased to meet thee,” he said, with a heavy bow.  “There’s a dear heart with my good neighbour Superstition yonder who will present a very fair account of that misguided young man.  Madam Wanton, here’s a young gentleman that never heard tell of our old friend Love-the-log.”

A shrill peal of laughter greeted this sally.

“Why, Faithful was a young gentleman, sir,” explained the woman civilly enough, “who preferred his supper hot.”

“Oh, Madam Wanton, my dear, my dear!” cried a long-nosed woman nearly helpless with amusement.

I saw Superstition gazing darkly at me.  He shook his head as I was about to reply, so I changed my retort.  “Who, then, was Mr. Christian?” I enquired simply.

At that the house shook with the roar of laughter that went up.

X

    ... Large draughts of intellectual day.

    —­RICHARD CRASHAW.

“Believe me, neighbours,” said Malice softly, when this uproar was a little abated, “there is nought so strange in the question.  It meaneth only that this young gentleman hath not enjoyed the pleasure of your company before.  Will it amaze you to learn, my friends, that Christian is like to be immortal only because you talk him out of the grave?  One brief epitaph, gentlemen, would let him rot.”