When the Ogre came, Molly served up the stew, and the Ogre sat down to
sup, his head just touching the kitchen rafters. The stew was perfect,
and there was plenty of it. For what Molly and her father ate was
hardly to be counted in the tubful. The Ogre was very much pleased,
and said politely:
"I'm afraid, my dear, that you have been put to great trouble and
expense on my account, I have a large appetite, and like to sup well."
"Don't mention it, sir," said Molly. "The fewer rats the more corn.
How do _you_ cook them?"
"Not one of all the extravagant hussies I have had as wives ever
cooked them at all," said the Ogre; and he thought to himself, "Such a
stew out of rats! What frugality! What a housewife!"
When he broached the wine, he was no less pleased, for it was of the
best.
"This, at any rate, must have cost you a great deal, neighbour," said
he, drinking the farmer's health as Molly left the room.
"I don't know that rotten apples could be better used," said the
farmer; "but I leave all that to Molly. Do you brew at home?"
"We give _our_ rotten apples to the pigs," growled the Ogre. "But
things will be better ordered when she is my wife."
The Ogre was now in great haste to conclude the match, and asked what
dowry the farmer would give his daughter.
"I should never dream of giving a dowry with Molly," said the farmer,
boldly. "Whoever gets her, gets dowry enough. On the contrary, I shall
expect a good round sum from the man who deprives me of her.
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