The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of the Green, where they could examine more closely the Quakerlike costume and odd deportment of the female Methodists.  Underneath the maple there was a small cart, which had been brought from the wheelwright’s to serve as a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few chairs had been placed.  Some of the Methodists were resting on these, with their eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or meditation.  Others chose to continue standing, and had turned their faces towards the villagers with a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy Cranage, the blacksmith’s buxom daughter, known to her neighbours as Chad’s Bess, who wondered “why the folks war amakin’ faces a that’ns.”  Chad’s Bess was the object of peculiar compassion, because her hair, being turned back under a cap which was set at the top of her head, exposed to view an ornament of which she was much prouder than of her red cheeks—­namely, a pair of large round ear-rings with false garnets in them, ornaments condemned not only by the Methodists, but by her own cousin and namesake Timothy’s Bess, who, with much cousinly feeling, often wished “them ear-rings” might come to good.

Timothy’s Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among her familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention the heavy baby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in knee-breeches, and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck by way of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad’s small terrier.  This young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy’s Bess’s Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty, had advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walking round the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wide open, and beating his stick against the milk-can by way of musical accompaniment.  But one of the elderly women bending down to take him by the shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy’s Bess’s Ben first kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and sought refuge behind his father’s legs.

“Ye gallows young dog,” said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, “if ye donna keep that stick quiet, I’ll tek it from ye.  What dy’e mane by kickin’ foulks?”

“Here!  Gie him here to me, Jim,” said Chad Cranage; “I’ll tie hirs up an’ shoe him as I do th’ hosses.  Well, Mester Casson,” he continued, as that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, “how are ye t’ naight?  Are ye coom t’ help groon?  They say folks allays groon when they’re hearkenin’ to th’ Methodys, as if they war bad i’ th’ inside.  I mane to groon as loud as your cow did th’ other naight, an’ then the praicher ‘ull think I’m i’ th’ raight way.”

“I’d advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad,” said Mr. Casson, with some dignity; “Poyser wouldn’t like to hear as his wife’s niece was treated any ways disrespectful, for all he mayn’t be fond of her taking on herself to preach.”