“Comin’ down!” echoed Josey—­“Comin’ down?  Gar’n with ye all for a parcel o’ silly idgits wi’ neither rhyme nor reason nor backbone!  Comin’ down!  Why ye might as well tell me the Manor House was bein’ turned into a cow-shed!  Comin’ down!  Gar’n!”

“It’s true, Josey,” said Adam Frost, beginning to make his way towards the gate of the churchyard, for he had just spied one of his numerous ‘olive-branches,’ frantically beckoning him home to dinner, and he knew by stern experience what it meant if Mrs. Frost and the family were kept waiting for the Sunday’s meal.  “It’s true, and you’ll find it so.  And whether it’ll be any good speakin’ to the new lady who’s comin’ home on Tuesday, or whether the Five Sisters won’t be all corpses afore she comes, there’s no knowin’.  The Lord He gave the trees, but whether the Lord He gave Oliver Leach to take ’em away again after a matter of three or four hundred year is mighty doubtful!”

Old Josey looked stupefied.

“The Five Sisters comin’ down!” he repeated dully; “May you never live to do my buryin’, Adam Frost, if it’s true!—­and that’s the worst wish I can give ye!”

But Adam Frost here obeyed the call of his domestic belongings, and hurried away without response.

Josey leaned on his stick thoughtfully for a minute, and then resumed his slow shuffling way.  Any one of the men or women near him would have willingly given him a hand to assist his steps, but they all knew that he would be highly incensed if they dared to show that they considered him in any way feeble or in need of support.  So they contented themselves with accompanying him at his own snail’s pace, and at such a distance as to be within hearing of any remarks he might let fall, without intruding too closely on the special area in which he chose to stump along homewards.

“The Five Sisters comin’ down, and the old Squire’s daughter comin’ ‘ome!” he muttered; “They two things is like ile and water,—­nothin’ ’ull make ’em mix.  The Squire’s daughter—­ay—­ay!  It seems but only yeste’day the Squire died!  And she was a fine mare that threw him, too,—­Firefly was her name.  Ay—­ay!  It seems but yeste’day—­but yeste’day!”

“D’ye mind the Squire’s daughter, Josey?” asked one of the village women sauntering a little nearer to him.

“Mind her?” And Josey Letherbarrow halted abruptly.  “Do I mind my own childer?  It seems but yeste’day, I tell ye, that the Squire died, but mebbe it’s a matter of six-an’-twenty ’ear agone since ’e came to me where I was a-workin’ in ’is fields, and he pinted out to me the nurse wot was walkin’ up and down near the edge of the pasture carryin’ his baby all in long clothes.  ‘See that, Josey!’ he sez, an’ ‘is eyes were all wild-like an’ ‘is lips was a’ tremblin’; ’That little white thing is all I’ve got left of the wife I was bringin’ ’ome to be the sunshine of the old Manor.  I felt like killin’ that child, Josey, when it was born,