“Well, I shan’t be sorry!”—­and Mrs. Keeley gave a short sigh of satisfaction—­“I’m fair sick o’ seein’ them motor-cars whizzin’ through the village makin’ such a dust an’ smell as never was,—­an’ I’m sure there’s no love lost ‘tweens Missis Frost an’ me, but it do make me worrited like when that there little Ipsie goes runnin’ out, not knowin’ whether she mayn’t be run over like my Bob’s pet dog.  For the quality don’t seem to care for no one ‘cept theirselves—­an’ it ain’t peaceful like nor safe as ’twas ‘fore they came.  An’ I s’pose we’ll be seein’ Miss Maryllia married next?”

Mrs. Spruce pursed up her mouth tightly and looked unutterable things.

“‘Tain’t no good countin’ chickens ’fore they’re hatched, Missis Keeley!” she said—­“An’ the Lord sometimes fixes up marriages in quite a different way to what we expects.  There ain’t goin’ to be no weddin’s nor buryin’s yet in the Manor, please the A’mighty goodness, for one’s as mis’able as t’other, an’ both means change, which sometimes is good for the ’elth but most often contrariwise, though whatever ’appens either way we must bend our ’eads under the rod to both.  But I mustn’t stay chitterin’ ’ere any longer—­good day t’ye!”

And nodding darkly as one who could say much an’ she would, the worthy woman ambled away.

Scraps of information, such as this talk of Mrs. Spruce’s, reached Bainton’s ears from time to time in a disjointed and desultory manner and moved him to profound cogitation.  He was not quite sure now whether, after all, his liking for Miss Vancourt had not been greatly misplaced.

“When I seed her first,”—­he said to himself, pathetically, while hoeing the weeds out of the paths in the rectory garden, “When me an’ old Josey went up to get ’er to save the Five Sisters, she seemed as sweet as ‘oney,—­an’ she’s done many a kind thing for the village since.  But I don’t care for ’er friends.  They’ve changed her like—­they’ve made her forget all about us!  An’ as for Passon, she don’t come nigh ‘im no more, an’ he don’t go nigh ’er.  Seems to me ‘tis all a muddle an’ a racket since the motor-cars went bouncin’ about an’ smellin’ like p’ison—­’tain’t wot it used to be.  Howsomever, let’s ’ope to the Lord it’ll soon be over.  If wot they all sez is true, there’ll be a weddin’ ’ere soon, Passon’ll marry Miss Vancourt to the future Dook, an’ away they’ll go, an’ Abbot’s Manor’ll be shut up again as it used to afore.  An’ the onny change we’ll ’ave will be Mr. Stanways for agent ’stead of Oliver Leach—­ which is a blessin’—­for Stanways is a decent, kindly man, an’ Oliver Leach—­well now!” And he paused in his hoeing, fixing his round eyes meditatively on a wall where figs were ripening in the sun—­“Blest if I can make out Oliver Leach!  One day he’s with old Putty Leveson—­another he’s drunk as a lord in the gutter—­an’ another he’s butterfly huntin’ with a net, lookin’ like a fool—­but allus about the place—­allus about—­an’ he’s got a face that a kid would scream at seein’ it in the dark.  I wish he’d find another situation in a fur-off neighbourhood!”