"Oh, Mr. Peter!" faltered Prudence, "be this true?" and in her eyes was the light of a sudden hope.

"Yes," I nodded.

"D'you think Squire'll see you--listen to you?" she cried breathlessly.

"I think he will, Prudence," said I.

"God bless you, Mr. Peter!" she murmured. "God bless you!"

But now came the sound of wheels and the voice of Simon, calling, wherefore I took my hat and followed the Ancient to the door, but there Prudence stopped me.

"Last time you met wi' Jarge he tried to kill you. Oh, I know, and now--you be goin' to--"

"Nonsense, Prue!" said I. But, as I spoke, she stooped and would have kissed my hand, but I raised her and kissed her upon the cheek, instead. "For good luck, Prue," said I, and so turned and left her.

In the porch sat Job, with Old Amos and the rest, still in solemn conclave over pipes and ale, who watched with gloomy brows as I swung myself up beside the Ancient in the cart.

"A fule's journey!" remarked Old Amos sententiously, with a wave of his pipe; "a fule's journey!"

The Ancient cast an observing eye up at the cloudless sky, and also nodded solemnly.

"Theer be some fules in this world, Peter, as mixes up rabbits wi' pa'tridges, and honest men--like Jarge--wi' thieves, an' lazy waggabones--like Job--but we'll show 'em, Peter, we'll show 'em --dang 'em! Drive on, Simon, my bye!"

So, with this Parthian shot, feathered with the one strong word the Ancient kept for such occasions, we drove away from the silenced group, who stared mutely after us until we were lost to view. But the last thing I saw was the light in Prue's sweet eyes as she watched us from the open lattice.

CHAPTER XXXII

HOW WE SET OUT FOR BURNHAM HALL

"Peter," said the Ancient, after we had gone a little way, "Peter, I do 'opes as you aren't been an' gone an' rose my Prue's 'opes only to dash 'em down again."

"I can but do my best, Ancient."

"Old Un," said Simon, "'tweren't Peter as rose 'er 'opes, 'twere you; Peter never said nowt about bringin' Jarge 'ome--"

"Simon," commanded the Ancient, "hold thy tongue, lad; I says again, if Peter's been an' rose Prue's 'opes only to dash 'em 't will be a bad day for Prue, you mark my words; Prue's a lass as don't love easy, an' don't forget easy."

"Why, true, Gaffer, true, God bless 'er!"

"She be one as 'ud pine--slow an' quiet, like a flower in the woods, or a leaf in autumn--ah! fade, she would, fade an' fade!"

"Well, she bean't a-goin' to do no fadin', please the Lord!"

"Not if me an' Peter an' you can 'elp it, Simon, my bye--but we 'm but poor worms, arter all, as the Bible says; an' if Peter 'as been an' rose 'er 'opes o' freein' Jarge, an' don't free Jarge --if Jarge should 'ave to go a convic' to Austrayley, or--or t'

other place, why then--she'll fade, fade as ever was, an' be laid in the churchyard afore 'er poor old grandfeyther!"

"Lord, Old Un!" exclaimed Simon, "who's a-talkin' o' fadin's an'

churchyards? I don't like it--let's talk o' summ'at else."

"Simon," said the Ancient, shaking his head reprovingly, "ye be a good bye--ah! a steady, dootiful lad ye be, I don't deny it; but the Lord aren't give you no imagination, which, arter all, you should be main thankful for; a imagination's a troublesome thing --aren't it, Peter?"

"It is," said I, "a damnable thing!"

"Ay--many's the man as 'as been ruinated by 'is imagination --theer was one, Nicodemus Blyte were 'is name--"

"And a very miserable cove 'e sounds, too!" added Simon.

"But a very decent, civil-spoke, quiet young chap 'e were!"

continued the Ancient, "only for 'is imagination; Lord! 'e were that full o' imagination 'e couldn't drink 'is ale like an ordinary chap--sip, 'e'd go, an' sip, sip, till 'twere all gone, an' then 'e'd forget as ever 'e'd 'ad any, an' go away wi'out paying for it--if some 'un didn't remind 'im--"

"'E were no fule, Old Un!" nodded Simon.

"An' that weren't all, neither, not by no manner o' means," the Ancient continued. "I've knowed that theer chap sit an' listen to a pretty lass by the hour together an' never say a word--not one!"

"Didn't git a chance to, p'r'aps?" said Simon.

"It weren't that, no, it were jest 'is imagination a-workin' an'

workin' inside of 'im, an' fillin' 'im up. 'Ows'ever, at last, one day, 'e up an' axed 'er to marry 'im, an' she, bein' all took by surprise, said 'yes,' an' went an' married some'un else."

"Lord!" said Simon, "what did she go and marry another chap for?"

"Simon," returned the Ancient, "don't go askin' fulish questions.

'Ows'ever, she did, an' poor Nicodemus growed more imaginative than ever; arter that, 'e took to turnips."

"Turnips?" exclaimed Simon, staring.

"Turnips as ever was!" nodded the Ancient, "used to stand, for hours at a time, a-lookin' at 'is turnips an' shakin' 'is 'ead over 'em."

"But--what for?--a man must be a danged fule to go shakin' of 'is 'ead over a lot o' turnips!"

"Well, I don't know," rejoined the Ancient; "'is turnips was very good uns, as a rule, an' fetched top prices in the markets."

At this juncture there appeared a man in a cart, ahead of us, who flourished his whip and roared a greeting, a coarse-visaged, loud-voiced fellow, whose beefy face was adorned with a pair of enormous fiery whiskers that seemed forever striving to hide his ears, which last, being very large and red, stood boldly out at right angles to his head, refusing to be thus ambushed, and scorning all concealment.

"W'at--be that the Old Un--be you alive an' kickin' yet?"

"Ay, God be thanked, John!"

"And w'at be all this I 'ear about that theer Black Jarge--'e never were much good--but w'at be all this?"

"Lies, mostly, you may tak' your oath!" nodded the Ancient.

"But 'e've been took for poachin', ah! an' locked up at the 'All--"