‘Neither then nor later?’ said Puck.

’Once.  ‘Twas after he gave St Barnabas’ the new chime of bells. (Oh, there was nothing the Collinses, or the Hayes, or the Fowles, or the Fenners would not do for the church then!  “Ask and have” was their song.) We had rung ’em in, and he was in the tower with Black Nick Fowle, that gave us our rood-screen.  The old man pinches the bell-rope one hand and scratches his neck with t’other.  “Sooner she was pulling yon clapper than my neck, he says.  That was all!  That was Sussex—­seely Sussex for everlastin’!’

‘And what happened after?’ said Una.

‘I went back into England,’ said Hal, slowly.  ’I’d had my lesson against pride.  But they tell me I left St Barnabas’ a jewel—­justabout a jewel!  Wel-a-well!  ’Twas done for and among my own people, and—­Father Roger was right—­I never knew such trouble or such triumph since.  That’s the nature o’ things.  A dear—­dear land.’  He dropped his chin on his chest.

’There’s your Father at the Forge.  What’s he talking to old Hobden about?’ said Puck, opening his hand with three leaves in it.

Dan looked towards the cottage.

’Oh, I know.  It’s that old oak lying across the brook.  Pater always wants it grubbed.’

In the still valley they could hear old Hobden’s deep tones.

‘Have it as you’ve a mind to,’ he was saying.  ’But the vivers of her roots they hold the bank together.  If you grub her out, the bank she’ll all come tearin’ down, an’ next floods the brook’ll swarve up.  But have it as you’ve a mind.  The Mistuss she sets a heap by the ferns on her trunk.

‘Oh!  I’ll think it over,’ said the Pater.

Una laughed a little bubbling chuckle.

‘What Devil’s in that belfry?’ said Hal, with a lazy laugh.  ’That should be a Hobden by his voice.’

’Why, the oak is the regular bridge for all the rabbits between the Three Acre and our meadow.  The best place for wires on the farm, Hobden says.  He’s got two there now,’ Una answered. ’He won’t ever let it be grubbed!’

‘Ah, Sussex!  Sillly Sussex for everlastin’,’ murmured Hal; and the next moment their Father’s voice calling across to Little Lindens broke the spell as little St Barnabas’ clock struck five.

A SMUGGLERS’ SONG

If You wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,
Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie. 
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by! 
     Five-and-twenty ponies,
     Trotting through the dark—­
     Brandy for the Parson,
     ’Baccy for the Clerk;
     Laces for a lady; letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine;
Don’t you shout to come and look, nor take ’em for your play;
Put the brishwood back again,—­and they’ll be gone next day!