Mr. Quince raised his eyebrows and then, after a long and meditative pinch of snuff, resumed his work.  The sun went down and the light faded slowly; distant voices sounded close on the still evening air, snatches of hoarse laughter jarred upon his ears.  It was clear that the story of the imprisoned swain was giving pleasure to Little Haven.

He rose at last from his chair and, stretching his long, gaunt frame, removed his leather apron, and after a wash at the pump went into the house.  Supper was laid, and he gazed with approval on the home-made sausage rolls, the piece of cold pork, and the cheese which awaited his onslaught.

“We won’t wait for Ned,” said Mrs. Quince, as she brought in a jug of ale and placed it by her husband’s elbow.

Mr. Quince nodded and filled his glass.

“You’ve been giving more advice, I hear,” said Mrs. Quince.

Her husband, who was very busy, nodded again.

“It wouldn’t make no difference to young Pascoe’s chance, anyway,” said Mrs. Quince, thoughtfully.

Mr. Quince continued his labours.  “Why?” he inquired, at last.

His wife smiled and tossed her head.

“Young Pascoe’s no chance against our Ned,” she said, swelling with maternal pride.

“Eh?” said the shoemaker, laying down his knife and fork.  “Our Ned?”

“They are as fond of each other as they can be,” said Mrs. Quince, “though I don’t suppose Farmer Rose’ll care for it; not but what our Ned’s as good as he is.”

“Is Ned up there now?” demanded the shoemaker, turning pale, as the mirthful face of Mr. Garnham suddenly occurred to him.

“Sure to be,” tittered his wife.  “And to think o’ poor young Pascoe shut up in that stable while he’s courting Celia!”

Mr. Quince took up his knife and fork again, but his appetite had gone.  Whoever might be paying attention to Miss Rose at that moment he felt quite certain that it was not Mr. Ned Quince, and he trembled with anger as he saw the absurd situation into which the humorous Mr. Rose had led him.  For years Little Haven had accepted his decisions as final and boasted of his sharpness to neighbouring hamlets, and many a cottager had brought his boots to be mended a whole week before their time for the sake of an interview.

He moved his chair from the table and smoked a pipe.  Then he rose, and putting a couple of formidable law-books under his arm, walked slowly down the road in the direction of Holly Farm.

The road was very quiet and the White Swan, usually full at this hour, was almost deserted, but if any doubts as to the identity of the prisoner lingered in his mind they were speedily dissipated by the behaviour of the few customers who crowded to the door to see him pass.

A hum of voices fell on his ear as he approached the farm; half the male and a goodly proportion of the female population of Little Haven were leaning against the fence or standing in little knots in the road, while a few of higher social status stood in the farm-yard itself.