“And don’t you flare up like that, at your time o’ life.  We’re fashionists to-day:  dining out.  ’Quarter after nine this morning I was passing by the Green wi’ the straw-cart, when old Jan Trueman calls after me, ’Have ‘ee heard the news?’’ What news?’ says I.  ‘Why,’ says he, ‘me an’ my missus be going into the House this afternoon—­can’t manage to pull along by ourselves any more,’ he says; ‘an’ we wants you an’ your father to drop in soon after noon an’ take a bite wi’ us, for old times’ sake.  ‘Tis our last taste o’ free life, and we’m going to do the thing fittywise,’ he says.”

The old man bent a meditative look on the village roofs below.

“We’ll pleasure ’en, of course,” he said slowly.  “So ’tis come round to Jan’s turn?  But a’ was born in the year of Waterloo victory, ten year’ afore me, so I s’pose he’ve kept his doom off longer than most.”

The two set off down the footpath.  There is a stile at the foot of the meadow, and as he climbed it painfully, the old man spoke again.

“And his doorway, I reckon, ‘ll be locked for a little while, an’ then opened by strangers; an’ his nimble youth be forgot like a flower o’ the field; an’ fare thee well, Jan Trueman!  Maria, too—­I can mind her well as a nursing mother—­a comely woman in her day.  I’d no notion they’d got this in their mind.”

“Far as I can gather, they’ve been minded that way ever since their daughter Jane died, last fall.”

From the stile where they stood they could look down into the village street.  And old Jan Trueman was plain to see, in clean linen and his Sunday suit, standing in the doorway and welcoming his guests.

“Come ye in—­come ye in, good friends,” he called, as they approached.  “There’s cold bekkon, an’ cold sheep’s liver, an’ Dutch cheese, besides bread, an’ a thimble-full o’ gin-an’-water for every soul among ye, to make it a day of note in the parish.”

He looked back over his shoulder into the kitchen.  A dozen men and women, all elderly, were already gathered there.  They had brought their own chairs.  Jan’s wife wore her bonnet and shawl, ready to start at a moment’s notice.  Her luggage in a blue handkerchief lay on the table.  As she moved about and supplied her guests, her old lips twitched nervously; but when she spoke it was with no unusual tremor of the voice.

“I wish, friends, I could ha’ cooked ye a little something hot; but there’d be no time for the washing-up, an’ I’ve ordained to leave the place tidy.”

One of the old women answered—­

“There’s nought to be pardoned, I’m sure.  Never do I mind such a gay set-off for the journey.  For the gin-an’-water is a little addition beyond experience.  The vittles, no doubt, you begged up at the Vicarage, sayin’ you’d been a peck o’ trouble to the family, but this was going to be the last time.”

“I did, I did,” assented Mr. Trueman.

“But the gin-an’-water—­how on airth you contrived it is a riddle!”