Nothing near him was thirsty. Certain top-heavy dahlias, looking
over the palings of his neat well-ordered garden, had swilled as
much as they could carry - perhaps a trifle more - and may have
been the worse for liquor; but the sweet-briar, roses, wall-
flowers, the plants at the windows, and the leaves on the old tree,
were in the beaming state of moderate company that had taken no
more than was wholesome for them, and had served to develop their
best qualities. Sprinkling dewy drops about them on the ground,
they seemed profuse of innocent and sparkling mirth, that did good
where it lighted, softening neglected corners which the steady rain
could seldom reach, and hurting nothing.
This village Inn had assumed, on being established, an uncommon
sign. It was called The Nutmeg-Grater. And underneath that
household word, was inscribed, up in the tree, on the same flaming
board, and in the like golden characters, By Benjamin Britain.
At a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face,
you might have known that it was no other than Benjamin Britain
himself who stood in the doorway - reasonably changed by time, but
for the better; a very comfortable host indeed.
'Mrs. B.,' said Mr. Britain, looking down the road, 'is rather
late. It's tea-time.'
As there was no Mrs.
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