He put the blotting-paper upon his sermon; he was in no mind to continue it then; took up his hat and went out.  His wife spoke to him from the open window.

“Are you going out now, George?  Tea is all but ready.”

Turning back on the path, he passed into the sitting-room.  A cup of tea might soothe his nerves.  The tea-tray stood on the table, and Mrs. West, caddy in hand, was putting the tea into the tea-pot.  Little Alice sat gravely by.

“Did you hear dat noise up in the church, papa?” she asked.

“Yes, I heard it, dear,” sighed the Vicar.

“A fine clashing it was!” cried Mrs. West.  “I have heard something else this afternoon, George, worse than that:  Bean’s furniture is being taken away.”

“What?” cried the Vicar.

“It’s true.  Sarah went out on an errand and passed the cottage.  The chairs and tables were being put outside the door by two men, she says:  brokers, I conclude.”

Mr. West made short work of his tea and started for the scene.  Thomas Bean was a very small farmer indeed, renting about thirty acres.  What with the heavy rates, as he said, and other outgoings and bad seasons, and ill-luck altogether, he had been behind in his payments this long while; and now the ill-luck seemed to have come to a climax.  Bean and his wife were old; their children were scattered abroad.

“Oh, sir,” cried the old lady when she saw the Vicar, the tears raining from her eyes, “it cannot be right that this oppression should fall upon us!  We had just managed—­Heaven knows how, for I’m sure I don’t—­to pay the Midsummer rent; and now they’ve come upon us for the rates, and have took away things worth ten times the sum.”

“For the rates!” mechanically spoke the Vicar.

She supposed it was a question.  “Yes, sir; two of ’em we had in the house.  One was for putting up the chimes; and the other—­well, I can’t just remember what the other was.  The beadle, old Crow, comes in, sir, this afternoon.  ‘Where be the master?’ says he.  ’Gone over to t’other side of Church Dykely,’ says I.  ‘Well,’ says he, upon that, ’you be going to have some visitors presently, and it’s a pity he’s out.’  ‘Visitors, for what, Crow?’ says I.  ‘Oh, you’ll see,’ says he; ’and then perhaps you’ll wish you’d bestirred yourselves to pay your just dues.  Captain Monk’s patience have been running on for a goodish while, and at last it have run clean out.’  Well, sir—­”

She had to make a pause; unable to control her grief.

“Well, sir,” she went on presently, “Crow’s back was hardly turned, when up came two men, wheeling a truck.  I saw ’em afar off, by the ricks yonder.  One came in; t’other stayed outside with the truck.  He asked me whether I was ready with the money for the taxes; and I told him I was not ready, and had but a couple of shillings in the house.  ’Then I must take the value of it in kind,’ says he.  And without another word, he beckons in the outside man to help him.  Our middle table, a mahogany, they seized; and the handsome oak chest, which had been our pride; and the master’s arm-chair—­But, there!  I can’t go on.”