“Put it down!” he said inwardly and with sternness,—­“put it down—­ trample it under foot, John, my boy!  The lady of the Manor is perhaps sent here to try your patience and prove the stuff that is in you!  She is no child,—­she is twenty-seven years of age—­a full grown woman,—­she will have her ways, just as you have yours,—­she will probably rub every mental and moral hair on the skin of your soul awry,—­but that is really just what you want, John,—­you do indeed!  You want something more irritating than Sir Morton Pippitt’s senile snobberies to keep you clean of an overgrowth or an undergrowth of fads!  Your powers of endurance are about to be put to the test, and you must come out strong, John!  You must not allow yourself to become a querulous old fellow because you cannot always do exactly as you like!”

He smiled genially at his own mental scolding of himself, and addressing Bainton once more, said: 

“I shall probably write a note to Miss Vancourt this afternoon, and send you up with it.  I shall tell her all about the Five Sisters, and ask her to give orders that the cutting down of the trees may be delayed till she has seen them for herself.  But don’t say anything about this in the village,” here he paused a moment, and then spoke with greater emphasis—­“I don’t want to interfere with anything anybody else may have on hand.  Do you understand?  We must save the old beeches somehow.  I will do my best, but I may fail; Miss Vancourt may not read my letter, or if she does, she may not be disposed to attend to it; it is best that all ways and means should be, tried,—­”

He broke off,—­but his eyes met Bainton’s in a mutual flash of understanding.

“You’re a straight man, Passon, and no mistake,” observed Bainton with a slow smile; “No beatin’ about the bush in the likes o’ you!  Lord, Lord!  What a mussy we ain’t saddled with a poor snuffling, addle-pated, whimperin’ man o’ God like we ’ad afore you come ’ere—­ what found all ‘is dooty an’ pleasure in dinin’ with Sir Morton Pippitt up at the ’All!  And when there was a man died, or a baby born, or some other sich like calamity in the village, he worn’t never to ’and to ’elp,-but he would give a look in when it was all over, and then he sez, sez he:  ’I’m sorry, my man, I wasn’t ’ere to comfort ye, but I was up at the ‘All.’  And he did roll it round and round in his mouth like as ‘twas a lump o’ butter and ’oney—­’up at the ‘All’!  Hor-hor-hor!  It must a’ tasted sweet to ’im as we used to say,—­and takin’ into consideration that Sir Morton was a bone-melter by profession, we used to throw up the proverb ’the nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat’—­not that it had any bearin’ on the matter, but a good sayin’s a good thing, and a proverb fits into a fancy sometimes better’n a foot into a shoe.  But you ain’t a snuffler, Passon!—­and you ain’t never been up at the ’All, nor wouldn’t go if you was axed to, and that’s one of the many things what makes you a gineral favourite,—­it do reely now!”