cart.  He had married a lass of the village, who had been his playmate in childhood, and who, after giving him four children, had died when she was forty,—­the four children had grown up and in their turn had married and died; but he, like a hardy old tree, had still lived on, with firm roots well fixed in the soil that had bred him.  Life had now become a series of dream pictures with him, representing every episode of his experience.  His mind was clear, and his perception keen; he seldom failed to recollect every detail of a circumstance when once the clue was given, and the right little cell in his brain was stirred.  To these qualities he added a stock of good sound common sense, with a great equableness of temperament, though he could be cynical, and even severe, when occasion demanded.  Just now, however, his venerable countenance was radiant,—­his few remaining tufts of white hair glistened in the sun like spun silver,—­his figure in its homely smock, leaning on the rough ash stick, expressed in its very attitude benevolence and good-humour, and ‘the purtiest little legs’ had evidently conjured up a vision of childish grace and innocence before his eyes, which he was loth to let go.

“She was took away arter the old Squire was killed, worn’t she?” asked Bainton, who was drinking in all the information he could, in order to have something to talk about to his master, when the opportunity offered itself.

“Ay! ay!  She was took away,” replied Josey, his smile darkening into a shadow of weariness; “The Squire’s neck was broke with Firefly—­ every man, woman and child knows that about here—­an’ then ’is brother came along, ’im wot ’ad married a ‘Merican wife wi’ millions, an’ ‘adn’t got no children of their own.  An’ they took the gel away with ’em—­a purty little slip of about fifteen then, with great big eyes and a lot of bright ’air;—­don’t none of ye remember ’er?”

Mr. Buggins shook his head.

“’Twas afore my time,” he said.  “I ain’t had the ‘Mother Huff’ more’n eight years.”

“I seed ’er once,” said Bainton—­“but onny once—­that was when I was workin’ for the Squire as extra ’and.  But I disremember ‘er face.’’

“Then ye never looked at it,” said Josey, with a chuckle; “or bein’ made man ye wouldn’t ’ave forgot it.  Howsomever, it’s ‘ears ago an’ she’s a woman growed—­she ain’t been near the place all this time, which shows as ‘ow she don’t care about it, bein’ took up with ’er ‘Merican aunt and the millions.  An’ she’d got a nice little penny of ’er own, too, for the old Squire left ’er all he ‘ad, an’ she was to come into it all when she was of age.  An’ now she’s past bein’ of age, a woman of six-an’-twenty,—­an’ ’er rich uncle’s dead, they say, so I suppose she an’ the ’Merican aunt can’t work it out together.  Eh, dear!  Well, well!  Changes there must be, and changes there will be, and if the Five Sisters is a-comin’ down, then there’s ill-luck brewin’ for the village, an’ for every man, woman and child in it!  Mark my wurrd!”