Freman.  Drop o’ eider, clove, an’ dash o’ gin.  There’s blood in the sky to-night.

Burlacombe.  Ah!  We’ll ‘ave fine weather now, with the full o’ the mune.

Freman.  Dust o’ wind an’ a drop or tu, virst, I reckon.  ‘Earl t’ nuse about curate an’ ’is wife?

Godleigh.  No, indeed; an’ don’t yu tell us.  We’m Christians ’ere in this village.

Freman.  ’Tain’t no very Christian nuse, neither.  He’s sent ’er off to th’ doctor.  “Go an’ live with un,” ‘e says; “my blessin’ on ye.”  If ’er’d a-been mine, I’d ’a tuk the whip to ’er.  Tam Jarland’s maid, she yeard it all.  Christian, indeed!  That’s brave Christianity!  “Goo an’ live with un!” ’e told ’er.

Burlacombe.  No, no; that’s, not sense—­a man to say that.  I’ll not ’ear that against a man that bides in my ’ouse.

Freman.  ’Tes sure, I tell ’ee.  The maid was hid-up, scared-like, behind the curtain.  At it they went, and parson ’e says:  “Go,” ’e says, “I won’t kape ’ee from ’im,” ‘e says, “an’ I won’t divorce ’ee, as yu don’t wish it!” They was ’is words, same as Jarland’s maid told my maid, an’ my maid told my missis.  If that’s parson’s talk, ‘tes funny work goin’ to church.

Trustaford. [Brooding] ’Tes wonderful quare, zurely.

Freman.  Tam Jarland’s fair mad wi’ curate for makin’ free wi’ his maid’s skylark.  Parson or no parson, ‘e’ve no call to meddle wi’ other people’s praperty.  He cam’ pokin’ ’is nose into my affairs.  I told un I knew a sight more ’bout ’orses than ’e ever would!

Trustaford.  He’m a bit crazy ‘bout bastes an’ birds.

[They have been so absorbed that they bane not noticed the entrance of Clyst, a youth with tousled hair, and a bright, quick, Celtic eye, who stands listening, with a bit of paper in his hand.]

Clyst. Ah! he’m that zurely, Mr. Trustaford.

     [He chuckles.]

Godleigh.  Now, Tim Clyst, if an’ in case yu’ve a-got some scandal on yer tongue, don’t yu never unship it here.  Yu go up to Rectory where ’twill be more relished-like.

Clyst. [Waving the paper] Will y’ give me a drink for this, Mr. Godleigh?  ’Tes rale funny.  Aw! ‘tes somethin’ swats.  Butiful readin’.  Poetry.  Rale spice.  Yu’ve a luv’ly voice for readin’, Mr. Godleigh.

Godleigh. [All ears and twinkle] Aw, what is it then?

Clyst. Ah!  Yu want t’know tu much.

     [Putting the paper in his pocket.]

     [While he is speaking, Jim Bere has entered quietly, with his
     feeble step and smile, and sits down.]

Clyst. [Kindly] Hello, Jim!  Cat come ’ome?

Jim Bere.  No.

[All nod, and speak to him kindly.  And Jim Bere smiles at them, and his eyes ask of them the question, to which there is no answer.  And after that he sits motionless and silent, and they talk as if he were not there.]

Godleigh.  What’s all this, now—­no scandal in my ’ouse!