She took the comb in her white fingers, and pressed the liquid gold from the cells; the luscious sweetness gathered from a thousand flowers making her lips still sweeter.

Uncle Bennet offered me a jar full to the brim: 'Dip your vinger in,' said he.
'Why is the honey of the hills so much nicer ?' asked Cicely, well knowing, but drawing him on.
'It be th' clover and th' thyme, and summat in the air.

There bean't no hedges for um to fly up against, and so um carries home a bigger load.' 'How many hives have you ?' I inquired.
'Let's see'-- he counted them up, touching a finger for each twenty--'There be three score and sixteen; I have a' had six score years ago, but folk don't care for honey now sugar be so cheap.' 'Let us go and see them,' said Cicely.

We went out and looked at the hives; they were all in a row, each protected by large 'pan-sherds' from heavy rain, and placed along beneath the wall of the garden, which sheltered them on one side.

Uncle Bennet chatted pleasantly about his bees for an hour, and would, I believe, have gossiped all day, notwithstanding that he had so little time for anything.