“Oh! they are all masterful—­that sort.”

Diana walked on.

“I suppose he gossiped about the election?”

“Yes.  He has all sorts of stories—­about the mines—­and the Tallyn estates,” said Muriel, unwillingly.

Diana’s look flashed.

“Do you believe he has any power of collecting evidence fairly?  I don’t.  He sees what he wants to see.”

Mrs. Colwood agreed; but did not feel called upon to confirm Diana’s view by illustrations.  She kept Mr. Lavery’s talk to herself.

Presently, as the evening fell, Diana sitting under the limes watching the shadows lengthen on the new-mown grass, wondered whether she had any mind—­any opinions of her own at all.  Her father; Oliver; Mr. Ferrier; Marion Vincent—­she saw and felt with them all in turn.  In the eyes of a Mrs. Fotheringham could anything be more despicable?

The sun was sinking when she stole out of the garden with some flowers and peaches for Betty Dyson.  Her frequent visits to Betty’s cottage were often the bright spots in her day.  With her, almost alone among the poor people, Diana was conscious of no greedy curiosity behind the spoken words.  Yet Betty was the living chronicle of the village, and what she did not know about its inhabitants was not worth knowing.

Diana found her white and suffering as usual, but so bubbling with news that she had no patience either with her own ailments or with the peaches.  Waving both aside, she pounced imperiously upon her visitor, her queer yellowish eyes aglow with “eventful living.”

“Did you hear of old Tom Murthly dropping dead in the medder last Thursday?”

Diana had just heard of the death of the eccentric old man who for fifty years—­bachelor and miser—­had inhabited a dilapidated house in the village.

“Well, he did.  Yo may take it at that—­yo may.” (A mysterious phrase, equivalent, no doubt, to the masculine oath.) “’Ee ’ad a lot of money—­Tom ’ad.  Them two ’ouses was ’is what stands right be’ind Learoyds’, down the village.”

“Who will they go to now, Betty?”

Betty’s round, shapeless countenance, furrowed and scarred by time, beamed with the joy of communication.

“Chancery!” she said, nodding.  “Chancery’ll ’ave ’em, in a twelvemonth’s time from now, if Mrs. Jack Murthly’s Tom—­young Tom—­don’t claim ’em from South Africa—­and the Lord knows where ee is!”

Diana tried to follow, held captive by a tyrannical pair of eyes.

“And what relation is Mrs. Jack Murthly to the man who died?”

“Brother’s wife!” said Betty, sharply.  “I thought you’d ha’ known that.”

“But if nothing is heard of the son, Betty—­of young Tom—­Mrs. Murthly’s two daughters will have the cottages, won’t they?”

Betty’s scorn made her rattle her stick on the flagged floor.

“They ain’t daughters!—­they’re only ’alves.”

“Halves?” said Diana, bewildered.