“Him!” replied George, pointing to the retreating dog-cart—­“he’s a-going to pull down the Castle and throw it into the moat and to send the plough over it, is he? Him—­that varmint!  Why, them old towers will be a-standing there when his beggarly bones is dust, and when his name ain’t no more a name; and there’ll be one of the old blood sitting in them too.  I knaw it, and I hev allus knawed it.  Come, Squire, though you allus du say how as I’m a fule, what did I tell yer?  Didn’t I tell yer that Prowidence weren’t a-going to let this place go to any laryers or bankers or thim sort?  Why, in course I did.  And now you see.  Not but what it is all owing to the Colonel.  He was the man as found it, but then God Almighty taught him where to dig.  But he’s a good un, he is; and a gintleman, not like him,” and once more he pointed with unutterable scorn to the road down which Edward Cossey had vanished.

“Now, look here,” said the Squire, “don’t you stand talking all day about things you don’t understand.  That’s the way you waste time.  You be off and look after this gold; it should not be left alone, you know.  We will come down presently to Molehill, for I suppose that is where it is.  No, I can’t stop to hear the story now, and besides I want Colonel Quaritch to tell it to me.”

“All right, Squire,” said George, touching his red nightcap, “I’ll be off,” and he started.

“George,” halloaed his master after him, but George did not stop.  He had a trick of deafness when the Squire was calling, that is if he wanted to go somewhere else.

“Confound you,” roared the old gentleman, “why don’t you stop when I call you?”

This time George brought his long lank frame to a standstill.

“Beg pardon, Squire.”

“Beg pardon, yes—­you’re always begging pardon.  Look here, you had better bring your wife and have dinner in the servants’ hall to-day, and drink a glass of port.”

“Thank you, Squire,” said George again, touching his red nightcap.

“And look here, George.  Give me your hand, man.  Here’s a merry Christmas to you.  We’ve gone through some queerish times about this place together, but now it almost looks as though we were going to end our days in peace and plenty.”

“Same to you, Squire, I’m sure, same to you,” said George, pulling off his cap.  “Yes, yes, we’ve had some bad years, what with poor Mr. James and that Quest and Cossey (he’s the master varmint of the lot he is), and the bad times, and Janter, and the Moat Farm and all.  But, bless you, Squire, now that there’ll be some ready money and no debts, why, if I don’t make out somehow so that you all get a good living out of the place I’m a Dutchman.  Why, yes, it’s been a bad time and we’re a-getting old, but there, that’s how it is, the sky almost allus clears toward night-fall.  God Almighty hev a mind to let one down easy, I suppose.”

“If you would talk a little less about your Maker, and come to church a little more, it would be a good thing, as I’ve told you before,” said the Squire; “but there, go along with you.”