suddint like, an’ ’e sez, sez ’e:  ’Take a note to the dam passon for me, an’ bring a harnser, an’ I’ll give yer somethink when yer gits back.’  An’ all the gents was a-sittin’ at breakfast, with the winders wide open an’ the smell of ‘am an’ eggs comin’ through strong, an’ they larfed fit to split theirselves, an’ one on ’em tried to kiss Kitty Spruce, an’ she spanked his face for ’im!”

The narration of this remarkable incident, spoken with breathless rapidity in a burst of confidence, seemed to cause the relief supposed to be obtained by a penitent in the confessional, and to lift a weight off Bob Keeley’s mind.  The smile deepened on the ‘Passon’s’ face, and for a moment he had some difficulty to control an outbreak of laughter, but recollecting the possibly demoralising effect it might have on the more youthful members of the community, if he, the spiritual director of the parish, were reported to have laughed at the pugnacious conduct of the valiant Kitty Spruce, he controlled himself, and assumed a tolerantly serious air.

“That will do, Bob!—­that will do!  You must learn not to repeat all you hear, especially such objectionable words as may occasionally be used by a—­a—­a gentleman of Sir Morton Pippitt’s high standing.”

And here he squared his shoulders and looked severely down an the abashed Keeley.  Anon he unbent himself somewhat and his eyes twinkled with kindly humour:  “Why didn’t you bring the Maypole here?” he enquired; “I suppose you thought it would not be as good a ’spec as Badsworth Hall and the London gents—­eh?”

Bob Keeley opened his round eyes very wide.

“We be all comin’ ’ere, sir!” he burst out:  “All on us—­ever so many on us!  But we reckoned to make a round of the village first and see how we took on, and finish up wi’ you, sir!  Kitty Spruce she be a-keepin’ her best ribbin for comin’ ‘ere—­we be all a-comin’ ’fore twelve!”

Walden smiled.

“Good!  I shall expect you!  And mind you don’t all sing out of tune when you do come.  If you commit such an offence, I shall—­let me see!—­I shall make mincemeat of you!—­I shall indeed!  Positive mincemeat!—­and bottle you up in jars for Christmas!” And he nodded with the ferociously bland air of the giant in a fairy tale, whose particular humour is the devouring of small children.  “Now you had better get back to Badsworth Hall with my message.  Do you remember it?  My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and I will write.”

He turned away, and Bob Keeley made as rapid a departure as was consistent with the deep respect he felt for the ‘Passon,’ having extracted a promise from the butcher boy of the village, who was a friend of his, that if he were ‘quick about it,’ he would get a drive up to Badsworth and back again in the butcher’s cart going there for orders, instead of tramping it.