"Ay; and the old house too, Master Cobbe. Build it up, man; build it up."

"Nay, not a stone. It is cursed--cursed."

"Bah! Stuff, man. Away with such folly. It is no more cursed than it is haunted, as the people say."

The founder started, and gazed strangely at his friend.

"Do they say it is haunted?"

"Yes; such folly. Two or three people have sworn to me that they have heard shrieks."

"Parson," said the founder hoarsely, as he laid his hand on the other's sleeve; "they are right; I once heard them too."

"What?" said Master Peasegood, laughing, "the owls?"

"Nay, I should know the cry of an owl, man. It is not that. Time after time I've stood there in the forest, and heard the wild cry just at dark when everything is still."

"Nay, nay," said Master Peasegood, "the dead don't cry for help, neither do the angels in heaven; and if there's truth in all we believe, man, our little Mace's looking down upon us, an angel among God's best and dearest ones."

The old man's head went down upon his hand at this, and he sat in silence for some time, while, with his eyes misty and dim, Master Peasegood leaned back in his chair, and smoked with all his might.

The silence was broken by the founder holding out his hand to his visitor, and shaking it warmly.

"Thankye, parson, thankye," he said. "What you say ought to be true; and I hope she forgives me for my vanity and pride."

"Poor child! It was a mistake, Master Cobbe, but let it rest. They say our gay spark, Sir Mark, is going to comfort himself by wedding Mistress Anne."

"Ay? Indeed?" said the founder. "I did hear something of the kind, but I paid little heed."

"I hear it as a fact, Master Cobbe."

"Well, let him," said the founder. "He should be a rich man, too, by this time, for he has made money from me as well as I have from the King. Don't talk of it, though; it makes me dwell upon the past."

They smoked on for a time without speaking, and then, with a patient, piteous aspect in his face, the founder turned to his visitor.

"I've been a wicked man, parson," he said.

"So we all are," said Master Peasegood, bluffly. "I always sinned from a desire for the good things of this life. I love goodly food, and good ale, and good tobacco now; and I shall go on sinning to the end," he added, taking a hearty draught.

"I have been harsh and hard, and I've not done my duty here, Master Peasegood; and these punishments have come upon me for my sins."

"Stuff, stuff!" cried Master Peasegood. "I won't sit and hear it.

Don't talk of your Maker as if he were some petty, revengeful man like us, ready to visit every little weakness upon our heads with a misfortune, or to pay us for being good boys with a slice of bread and honey. Out on such religious ideas as that, Master Cobbe, and think of your God as one who is great and good. Bah! It aggravates me to hear and see people fall down and worship the ugly image they have set up in their hearts, one that every work of the Creator gives the lie to for its falsity and cruel wrong. Bear your burden, Jeremiah Cobbe, like a man. It is not in us to know the ins and outs of God's ways; and it is a wicked and impious sin for people to say this is a judgment, or that is a judgment, and to pretend to know what the All-Seeing thinks and does. You say you've been a wicked man, Master Cobbe."

"Yes, yes," said the founder sadly; "and I have but one hope now, and that is that I may see my darling once again."

"Amen to that," said Master Peasegood; "but, as to your wickedness, I wish every man was as wicked, and hot-tempered, and true-hearted, and generous, and frank, and industrious, and forgiving as thou art, Jeremiah Cobbe; and--Will you have that ale flagon filled again? Much talking makes me dry."

The founder smiled, and called for Croftly's wife, who replenished the flagon, bobbed a curtsey to the parson, and re-entered the cottage.

"I like you, Jeremiah Cobbe," continued Master Peasegood, after setting down the flagon with a satisfied sigh; "but don't be superstitious, man, like our sovereign master the King, who has written a book to hand down his wisdom to posterity."

"Indeed!" said the founder, whose thoughts were evidently far away.

"Yes, indeed," said Master Peasegood; "and it's all about witches and warlocks and the like. That piece of idiot spawn has gotten itself down here into Sir Thomas's hands; and, as I told thee, he was very near laying that foolish old woman Mother Goodhugh by the heels. Now she hates me like poison, because I laugh at her and tell the people she is a half-crazed old crone. Last time I saw her we quarrelled, for I told her she was a wretched old impostor, for cheating the poor people as she did. Ha! ha! ha! and then she defied and cursed me, and said she'd go to Father Brisdone and turn Roman Catholic. I told her to go, and he'd curse her for cursing, for it is his trade, and she has no right to handle such tools at all."

"Poor weak woman," said the founder. "She is more to be pitied than blamed. I suppose she thinks in her heart that I am the cause of all her woes."

"Ay, poor soul, but it's partly vanity, friend Cobbe. She likes to set up for a prophetess, a sort of diluted Deborah, and to make the people believe in her. There, you must go and see her. If I go to her, being the good man of the parish, she will have naught to say to me. Now, you being a wicked man, may have more influence than I."

"I influence? Nay, man; she'll fall a cursing if I go nigh her cot."

"Let her curse. Her words won't hurt thee, man. Go to her, and give her money--thou hast enough--bid her get away far enough from this place to somewhere safe; and when there, tell her to live a decent life and forget her silly trickstering and stuff. It's a fine opportunity for thee, Jeremiah Cobbe. It's just the sort of revenge thou lik'st to take on an enemy. Go and pour coals of fire on her head, for I'm sure this place isn't safe for such as she."

"Would Sir Thomas imprison her?" said the founder.

"Sir Thomas is so good and honest a justice of the peace, and so great a lover of the words of his Majesty the King, who made him the baronet he is, that he would set up a stake, scatter Dame Beckley's dried simples and herbs around it, heap it with goodly faggots, and burn Mother Goodhugh for a witch while the Roehurst people would look on."

"Thinkest thou this, Master Peasegood?"

"I'm sure of it," said the parson, dashing down his pipe in his anger.

"Jeremiah Cobbe, it makes me as mad as Moses to see what fools the people are. We have just got rid of the superstitions of Rome, sir, and we go at once and set up the golden calf of witchcraft, and worship it, from our ruler to the humblest peasant in his realm. By my word, Master Cobbe, an' I had had the two tables in my hands like the old prophet, I'd not have broken them on the rocks, but upon the thick-boned skulls of my erring folk."

"Not worship the idol--condemn it, Master Peasegood," said the founder, smiling.

"Well, but we believe it," cried the other. "Out upon us all, but we are sorry-fools."

"I'll go and do this thing, Master Peasegood," said the founder, after musing for a few minutes.

"That's right; I knew thou would'st."

"But maybe she will not go."

"Then take her, like the angels did Lot of old, and thrust her out of the place. Tell her Roehurst will prove a Sodom to her if she does not go, for i' faith she'll go to the flames, in spite of all I can do or say."

"I'll go to her this very evening, Master Peasegood."

"Then I will go my way," cried the parson; and, paying one more attention to the flagon, he rose, shook hands, and left.

Volume 3, Chapter X.

HOW MOTHER GOODHUGH FARED ILL AT JUSTICE'S HANDS.

By chance it happened that Anne Beckley had extended her walk towards the woods and had strolled farther than she had intended. Fate led her into the narrow lane where she had rested in Gil Carr's arms when Mace and Sir Mark had been witnesses of the scene.

She smiled now as she seated herself upon the bank, and thought of the changes that had taken place, for she was shortly to become Mark Leslie's wife.

How the time had passed, she thought, and how cleverly she had won Sir Mark from his gloom and despondency to become at first grateful, then loving, and at last--so she believed--so infatuated with her, that she could do with him as she pleased.