’Bad?  Not even a liven soul, gentle or simple, can stand on level ground.  As to getten up hill to the church, ’tis perfect lunacy.  And I speak of foot-passengers.  As to horses and carriage, ’tis murder to think of ’em.  I am going to send straight as a line into the breakfast-room, and say ’tis a closer. . . .  Hullo—­here’s Clerk Crickett and John Day a-comen!  Now just look at ’em and picture a wedden if you can.’

All eyes were turned to the window, from which the clerk and gardener were seen crossing the court, bowed and stooping like Bel and Nebo.

‘You’ll have to go if it breaks all the horses’ legs in the county,’ said the cook, turning from the spectacle, knocking open the oven-door with the tongs, glancing critically in, and slamming it together with a clang.

‘O, O; why shall I?’ asked the coachman, including in his auditory by a glance the clerk and gardener who had just entered.

’Because Mr. Manston is in the business.  Did you ever know him to give up for weather of any kind, or for any other mortal thing in heaven or earth?’

‘——­Mornen so’s—­such as it is!’ interrupted Mr. Crickett cheerily, coming forward to the blaze and warming one hand without looking at the fire.  ’Mr. Manston gie up for anything in heaven or earth, did you say?  You might ha’ cut it short by sayen “to Miss Aldclyffe,” and leaven out heaven and earth as trifles.  But it might be put off; putten off a thing isn’t getten rid of a thing, if that thing is a woman.  O no, no!’

The coachman and gardener now naturally subsided into secondaries.  The cook went on rather sharply, as she dribbled milk into the exact centre of a little crater of flour in a platter—­

‘It might be in this case; she’s so indifferent.’

’Dang my old sides! and so it might be.  I have a bit of news—­I thought there was something upon my tongue; but ’tis a secret; not a word, mind, not a word.  Why, Miss Hinton took a holiday yesterday.’

‘Yes?’ inquired the cook, looking up with perplexed curiosity.

‘D’ye think that’s all?’

’Don’t be so three-cunning—­if it is all, deliver you from the evil of raising a woman’s expectations wrongfully; I’ll skimmer your pate as sure as you cry Amen!’

’Well, it isn’t all.  When I got home last night my wife said, “Miss Adelaide took a holiday this mornen,” says she (my wife, that is); “walked over to Nether Mynton, met the comen man, and got married!” says she.’

‘Got married! what, Lord-a-mercy, did Springrove come?’

‘Springrove, no—­no—­Springrove’s nothen to do wi’ it—­’twas Farmer Bollens.  They’ve been playing bo-peep for these two or three months seemingly.  Whilst Master Teddy Springrove has been daddlen, and hawken, and spetten about having her, she’s quietly left him all forsook.  Serve him right.  I don’t blame the little woman a bit.’

‘Farmer Bollens is old enough to be her father!’