“Why, what’s up in your pretty village, landlord?” he continued, getting down.  “There seems to be quite a stir.”

“It’s a Methodis’ preaching, sir; it’s been gev hout as a young woman’s a-going to preach on the Green,” answered Mr. Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent.  “Will you please to step in, sir, an’ tek somethink?”

“No, I must be getting on to Rosseter.  I only want a drink for my horse.  And what does your parson say, I wonder, to a young woman preaching just under his nose?”

“Parson Irwine, sir, doesn’t live here; he lives at Brox’on, over the hill there.  The parsonage here’s a tumble-down place, sir, not fit for gentry to live in.  He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an’ puts up his hoss here.  It’s a grey cob, sir, an’ he sets great store by’t.  He’s allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed the Donnithorne Arms.  I’m not this countryman, you may tell by my tongue, sir.  They’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country, sir; the gentry’s hard work to hunderstand ’em.  I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I was a bye.  Why, what do you think the folks here says for ’hevn’t you?’—­the gentry, you know, says, ’hevn’t you’—­well, the people about here says ‘hanna yey.’  It’s what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir.  That’s what I’ve heared Squire Donnithorne say many a time; it’s the dileck, says he.”

“Aye, aye,” said the stranger, smiling.  “I know it very well.  But you’ve not got many Methodists about here, surely—­in this agricultural spot?  I should have thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to be found about here.  You’re all farmers, aren’t you?  The Methodists can seldom lay much hold on them.”

“Why, sir, there’s a pretty lot o’ workmen round about, sir.  There’s Mester Burge as owns the timber-yard over there, he underteks a good bit o’ building an’ repairs.  An’ there’s the stone-pits not far off.  There’s plenty of emply i’ this countryside, sir.  An’ there’s a fine batch o’ Methodisses at Treddles’on—­that’s the market town about three mile off—­you’ll maybe ha’ come through it, sir.  There’s pretty nigh a score of ’em on the Green now, as come from there.  That’s where our people gets it from, though there’s only two men of ’em in all Hayslope:  that’s Will Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at the carpenterin’.”

“The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?”

“Nay, sir, she comes out o’ Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty mile off.  But she’s a-visitin’ hereabout at Mester Poyser’s at the Hall Farm—­it’s them barns an’ big walnut-trees, right away to the left, sir.  She’s own niece to Poyser’s wife, an’ they’ll be fine an’ vexed at her for making a fool of herself i’ that way.  But I’ve heared as there’s no holding these Methodisses when the maggit’s once got i’ their head:  many of ’em goes stark starin’ mad wi’ their religion.  Though this young woman’s quiet enough to look at, by what I can make out; I’ve not seen her myself.”