“Come, Byron,” then said the squire; and both went in and took seats at the little oilcloth-covered table. The supper consisted of boiled potatoes served with their skins on, thin slices of fried pork swimming in their own melted fat, and a heavy and sour kind of bread, which, by its quality and complexion, always reminded Byron of his Aunt Peternot, who seemed to have mixed up something of herself in the dough. He was blessed with a good appetite, however, and he ate heartily, notwithstanding his unpleasant consciousness of the fact—or was it only his imagination?—that the good woman watched with a begrudging scowl every morsel that went to his plate; seeming to say, “What! another tater! More bread! A second cup of tea, and sich big cups too! Seems to me I wouldn’t make a hog of myself, if I _was_ visitin’ my uncle!”