The Stockingtonians were chopfallen, but they were angry and dogged; and They thronged up to the village and the front of the hall.  They filled the little inn in the hamlet-they went by scores, and roving all over the churchyard, read epitaphs

  That teach the rustic moralists to die,

but don’t teach them to give up their old indulgences very good-humoredly.  They went and sat in rows on the old churchyard wall, opposite to the very windows of the irate Sir Roger.  They felt themselves beaten, and Sir Roger felt himself beaten.  True, he could coerce them to the keeping of the footpaths—­but, then, they had the footpaths!  True, thought the Stockingtonians, we have the footpaths, but then the picnic-ing, and the fishing, and the islands!  The Stockingtonians were full of sullen wrath, and Sir Roger was—­oh, most expressive old Saxon phrase—­HAIRSORE!  Yes, he was one universal round of vexation and jealousy of his rights.  Every hair in his body was like a pin sticking into him.  Come within a dozen yards of him; nay, at the most, blow on him, and he was excruciated—­you rubbed his sensitive hairs at a furlong’s distance.

The next Sunday the people found the churchyard locked up, except during service, when beadles walked there, and desired them not to loiter and disturb the congregation, closing the gates, and showing them out like a flock of sheep the moment the service was over.  This was fuel to the already boiling blood of Stockington.  The week following, what was their astonishment to find a much frequented ruin gone! it was actually gone! not a trace of it; but the spot where it had stood for ages, turfed, planted with young spruce trees, and fenced off with post and rail!  The exasperated people now launched forth an immensity of fulminations against the churl Sir Roger, and a certain number of them resolved to come and seat themselves in the street of the hamlet and there dine; but a terrific thunderstorm, which seemed in league with Sir Roger, soon routed them, drenched them through, and on attempting to seek shelter in the cottages, the poor people said they were very sorry, but it was as much as their holdings were worth, and they dare not admit them.

Sir Roger had triumphed!  It was all over with the old delightful days at Rockville.  There was an end of picnic-ing, of fishing, and of roving in the islands.  One sturdy disciple of Izaak Walton, indeed, dared to fling a line from the banks of Rockville grove, but Sir Roger came upon him and endeavored to seize him.  The man coolly walked into the middle of the river, and, without a word, continued his fishing.

“Get out there!” exclaimed Sir Roger, “that is still on my property.”  The man walked through the river to the other bank, where he knew that the land was rented by a farmer.  “Give over,” shouted Sir Roger, “I tell you the water is mine.”

“Then,” said the fellow, “bottle it up, and be hanged to you!  Don’t you see it is running away to Stockington?”