However, Watson shook hands with great friendliness.

’Well, I’m glad to see yer, John, I’m sure.  An now, I s’pose, you’re back for good?’

‘Aye.  I’m not goin away no more.  I’ve done my share—­I wants a bit o’ rest.’

’Of coorse yer do.  You’ve been ill, ’aven’t yer?  You look like it.  An yer puttin up at Costrells’?’

’Yes, till I can turn round a bit.  ’Ave yer seen anythin ov ’em?  ’Ow’s Bessie?’

Watson faced back towards the village.

’I’ll walk with yer a bit—­I’m in no ’urry.  Oh, she’s all right.  You ‘eard of her bit o’ money?’

John opened his eyes.

‘Noa, I don know as I did.’

‘It wor an aunt o’ hers, soa I understan—­quite a good bit o’ money.’

‘Did yer iver hear the name?’ said John, eagerly.

’Some one livin at Bedford, I did ‘ear say.’

John laughed, not without good-humoured relief.  It would have touched his vanity had his niece been discovered to be richer than himself.

‘Oh, that’s old Sophy Clarke,’ he said.  ’Her ‘usband bought the lease o’ two little ’ouses in Church Street, and they braaet ’er in six shillins a week for years, an she allus said she’d leave it to Bessie if she wor took afore the lease wor up.  But the lease ull be up end o’ next year I know, for I saw the old lady myself last Michaelmas twelvemonth, an she told me all about it, though I worn’t to tell nobody meself.  An I didn’t know Sophy wor gone.  Ah, well! it’s not much, but it’s ’andy—­it’s ‘andy.’

‘Six shillins a week!’ said Watson, raising his eyebrows.  ’It’s a nice bit o’ money while it lassts, but I’d ha thought Mrs. Costrell ’ad come into a deal more nor that.’

‘Oh, but she’s sich a one to spend, is Bessie,’ said John, anxiously.  ’It’s surprisin ’ow the money runs.  It’s sixpence ’ere, an sixpence there, allus dribblin, an dribblin, out ov ’er.  I’ve allus tole ’er as she’ll end ‘er days on the parish.’

‘Sixpences!’ said Watson, with a laugh.  ’It’s not sixpences as Mrs. Costrell’s ’ad the spendin of this last month or two—­it’s suverins—­ an plenty ov ’em.  You may be sure you’ve got the wrong tale about the money, John; it wor a deal more nor you say.’

John stood stock-still at the word ‘sovereigns,’ his jaw dropping.

‘Suverins!’ he said, trembling; ’suverins?  Bessie ain’t got no suverins.  Isaac arns sixteen shillin a week.’

The colour was ebbing fast from his cheek and lips.  Watson threw him a quick professional glance, then rapidly consulted with himself.  No; he decided to hold his tongue.

‘Yo are reg’lar used up,’ he said, taking hold of the old fellow kindly by the arm.  ‘Shall I walk yer up the hill?’

John withdrew himself.

‘Suverins!’ he repeated, in a low hoarse voice.  ’She ain’t got ’em, I tell yer—­she ain’t got ’em!’

The last words rose to a sort of cry, and without another word to Watson the old man started at a feeble run, his head hanging.