“Bainton!” interrupted Walden severely; “How often must I tell you that you should not speak of the rector of Badsworth in that disrespectful manner?”

“Very sorry, sir!” said Bainton complacently; “But if one of the names of a man ‘appens to be Putwood an’ the man ’imself is as fat as a pig scored for roastin’ ’ole, what more natrul than the pet name of ‘Putty’ for ’im?  No ’arm meant, I’m sure, Passon!—­Putty’s as good as Pippitt any day!”

Walden suppressed his laughter with an effort.  He was very much of a boy at heart, despite his forty odd years, and the quaint obstinacies of his gardener amused him too much to call for any serious remonstrance.  Turning back to his study he took his hat and cane from their own particular corner of the room and started for the little clap gate which Bainton had been, as he said, ’keeping his eye on.’

“No more work to-day,” he said, with an air of whimsical resignation; “But I may possibly get one or two hints for my sermon!”

He strode off, and Bainton watched him go.  As the clap gate opened and swung to again, and his straight athletic figure disappeared, the old gardener still stood for a moment or two ruminating.

“What a blessin’ he ain’t married!” he said thoughtfully; “A blessin’ to the village, an’ a blessin’ to ’imself!  He’d a bin a fine man spoilt, if a woman ’ad ever got ’old on ’im,—­a fine man spoilt, jes’ like me!”

An appreciative grin at his own expense spread among the furrows of his face at this consideration;—­then he trotted

IV

Two days later on, when Walden was at work in his own room seriously considering the points of his sermon for the coming Sunday, his ‘head man about the place,’ Bainton, made a sudden appearance on the lawn and abruptly halted there, looking intently up at the sky, as though taking observations of a comet at noon.  This was a customary trick of his resorted to whenever he wished to intrude his presence during forbidden hours.  John saw him plainly enough from where he sat busily writing, though for a few minutes he pretended not to see.  But as Bainton remained immovable and apparently rooted to the ground, and as it was likely that there he would remain till positively told to go, his master made a virtue of necessity, and throwing down his pen, went to the window.  Bainton thereupon advanced a little, but stopped again as though irresolute.  Walden likewise paused a moment, then at last driven to bay by the old gardener’s pertinacity, stepped out.

“Now what is it, Bainton?” he said, endeavouring to throw a shade of sternness into his voice; “You know very well I hate being disturbed while I’m writing.”

Bainton touched his cap respectfully.

“Now don’t go for to say as I’m disturbing on ye, Passon,” he remonstrated, mildly; “I ain’t said a mortal wurrd!  I was onny jes’ keepin’ my eye on the clap gate yonder, in case the party in the churchyard might walk through, thinkin’ it a right-o’-way.  Them swagger folk ain’t got no sort of idee as to respectin’ private grounds.”