“Ay,” said the old man, “and you’re all growing up such fine young ladies.  Deary me, Mary, but they must make you feel old.”

“We were just going to have some tea,” said Esther; “wouldn’t you like a cup, uncle?”

“I daresay your uncle would rather have a glass of beer,” said Mrs. Mesurier.

“Ay, you’re right there, Mary,” answered the old man, “right there.  A glass of beer is good enough for Samuel Clegg.  A glass of beer and some bread and cheese, as the old saying is, is good enough for a king; but bread and cheese and water isn’t fit for a beggar.”

All laughed obligingly; and the old man turned to a bulging pocket which had evidently been on his mind from his entrance.

“I’ve got a little present here from Esther,” he said,—­“Esther” being the aunt after whom Mike’s Esther had been named,—­bringing out a little newspaper parcel.  “But I must tell you from the beginning.

“Well, you know, Mary,” he continued, “I was feeling rather low yesterday, and Esther said to me, ’Why not take a day off to-morrow, Samuel, and see Mary, it’ll shake you up a bit, and I’ll be bound she’s right glad to see you?’ ‘Why, lass!’ I said, ’it’s the very thing.  See if I don’t go in the morning.’

“So this morning,” he continued, “she tidies me up—­you know her way—­and sends me off.  But before I started, she said, ’Here, Samuel, you must take this, with my love, to Mary.’  I’ve kept it wrapped up in this drawer for thirty years, and only the other day our Mary Elizabeth said, ’Mother, you might give me that old jug.  It would look nice in our little parlour.’” “But no!” I says, “Mary Elizabeth, if any one’s to have that jug, it’s your Aunt Mary.”

“How kind of her!” murmured Mrs. Mesurier, sympathetically.

“Yes, those were her words, Mary,” said the old man, unfolding the newspaper parcel, and revealing an ugly little jug of metallically glistening earthenware, such as were turned out with strange pride from certain English potteries about seventy years ago.  It seemed made in imitation of metal,—­a sort of earthenware pewter; and evidently it had been a great aesthetic treasure in the eyes of Mrs. Clegg.  Mrs. Mesurier received it accordingly.

“How pretty,” she said, “and how kind of Aunt Esther!  They don’t make such things nowadays.”

“No, it’s a vallyble relic,” said the old man; “but you’re worthy of it, Mary.  I’d rather see you have it than any of them.  My word, but I’m glad I’ve got it here safely.  Esther would never have forgiven me.’  Now, Samuel,’ she said, as I left, ’mind you get home before dark, and don’t sit on the jug, whatever you do.’”

Meanwhile the “young ladies” were in imminent danger of convulsions; and, at that moment, further to enhance the situation, an old lady of the neighbourhood, who occasionally dropped in for a gossip, was announced.  She was a prim little lady, with “Cranford” curls, and a certain old-world charm and old-world vanity about her, and very deaf.  She too was a “character” in her way, but so different from old Mr. Clegg that the entertainment to be expected from their conjunction was irresistible even to anticipate.