A slight tinge of colour overspread Walden’s face.  Presently he smiled, and tearing up the note leisurely, put the fragments into one of his large loose coat pockets, for to scatter a shred of paper on his lawn or garden paths was an offence which neither he nor any of those he employed ever committed.

“How is your mother, Bob?” he then said, approaching the stumpy urchin, who stood respectfully watching him and awaiting his pleasure.

“Please sir, she’s all right, but she coughs ’orful!”

“Coughs ’orful, does she?” repeated the Reverend John, musingly; “Ah, that is bad!—­I am sorry!  We must—­let me think!—­yes, Bob, we must see what we can do for her—­eh?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Bob meekly, turning his cap round and round and wondering what ‘Passon’ was thinking about to have such a ’funny look’ in his eyes.

“Yes!” repeated Walden, cheerfully, “We must see what we can do for her!  My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, Bob, and say I will write.”

“Nothink else, sir?”

“Nothing—­or as you put it, Bob, ‘nothink else’!  I wish you would remember, my dear boy,”—­and here he laid his firm, well-shaped hand protectingly on the small brown corduroy shoulder,—­“that the word ‘nothing’ does not terminate in a ‘k.’  If you refer to your spelling-book, I am sure you will see that I am right.  The Educational authorities would not approve of your pronunciation, Bob, and I am endeavouring to save you future trouble with the Government.  By the way, did Sir Morton Pippitt give you anything for bringing his note to me?”

“Sed he would when I got back, sir.”

“Said he would when you got back?  Well,—­I have my doubts, Bob,—­I do not think he will.  And the labourer being worthy of his hire, here is sixpence, which, if you like to do a sum on your slate, you will find is at the rate of one penny per mile.  When you are a working man, you will understand the strict justice of my payment.  It is three miles from Badsworth Hall and three back again,—­and now I come to think of it, what were you doing up at Badsworth?”

Bob Keeley grinned from ear to ear.

“Me an’ Kitty Spruce went up on spec with a Maypole early, sir!”

John Walden smiled.  It was May morning,—­of course it was!—­and in the village of St. Rest the old traditional customs of May Day were still kept up, though in the county town of Riversford, only seven miles away, they were forgotten, or if remembered at all, were only used as an excuse for drinking and vulgar horse-play.

“You and Kitty Spruce went up on spec?  Very enterprising of you both, I am sure!  And did you make anything out of it?”

“No, sir,—­there ain’t no ladies there, ’cept Miss Tabitha,—­onny some London gents,—­and Sir Morton, ’e flew into an orful passion—­ like ‘e do, sir,—­an’ told us to leave off singin’ and git out,—­ ‘Git off my ground,’ he ’ollers—­’Git off!’—­then jest as we was a gittin’ off, he cools down