“First turn at the end of the lane, then third house on the right, and ax for Mrs. Tapper,” he repeated to himself from time to time.  “First turn, and third house—­’e-es I can mind it right enough—­third house and ax for Mrs. Tapper.”

“’Tis a pity,” said some one for the fortieth time that day, “’tis a pity, Mr. Maine, as you ain’t got no folks o’ your own.  Ah, ’tis a pity, sure.  ‘Twould ha’ been more cheerful like if you’d ha’ been going home.”

“’E-es,” agreed Giles, also for the fortieth time, “‘e-es I d’ ’low it would, but I ain’t had no folk—­there!  I can scarce mind when I had any.  I never so much as heerd the name o’ this ’ere chap what has left me his fortun’.  Never heerd his name—­never so much as knowed he were born.”

“Dear to be sure!  It seems strange, don’t it?  And him to leave ye his money and all.  I wonder where ye’ll go, Mr. Maine.  P’r’aps ye’ll go to Lunnon?”

“To Lunnon?” gasped Giles, his jaw dropping.  “What should I go to Lunnon for?”

“Oh, I don’t know—­ye can go where ye like, d’ye see.  I reckon I’d go to Lunnon if I was in your shoes.”

“Would ’ee?” queried Giles, interested, but still aghast.  “Nay now, ye see, I never was one for travellin’—­I’ve never been so far as Darchester, not once all the time I were”—­he jerked his thumb over his shoulder—­“outside.”

“Well, your lodgin’ be only took on trial, so to speak, to see how ye do like it,” said another man.  “Ye can change it so soon as ye please, and move here and there just as ye fancy.  A fine life—­I’d give summat to be you.”

“I never was one for movin’ much,” said the old man, uneasily.  “Nay, movin’ weren’t in my line.  I did use to work for the same master pretty near all my life, till I were took bad wi’ the rheumatiz.  ’E-es, he were a good master to I. I could be fain to see en again, but he’s dead, they tell me, and the family ha’ shifted.  There bain’t nobody out yonder as I ever had acquaintance wi’ in the wold times.  Nay, all ’ull be new, and a bit strange.”

“A pleasant change, I should think,” a gruff man was beginning—­an unattractive person this, with a week-old beard and a frowning brow, when an old fellow, who had been sitting disconsolately in the corner of the room, suddenly struck in: 

“I d’ ’low, Giles, ye’ll be like to miss we when ye’re all among strangers, I d’ ’low ye will.  ’E-es, ye’ll be like to miss we just so much as us’ll miss you.”

Giles rolled his eyes towards him with a startled expression, but said nothing for a moment or two; then he remarked, in a somewhat dolorous tone: 

“I d’ ’low I’ll miss you, Jim; you and me has sat side by side this fifteen year—­’tis fifteen year, bain’t it, since ye come?”

“Ah! fifteen year,” agreed Jim.  “I’ll be the woldest inmate in th’ Union when you do leave.”

“’E-es, Jim, thee ‘ull be gettin’ all the buns and all the baccy now,” cried one of the others, laughing.  “He’ll have to stand up and say ‘Good marnin’’ to the gentry when they comes round, and tell his age, and how long he’ve a-been here, and all.  I d’ ’low he’ll do it just so well as you.”