“Good-morning!” he said, with affable condescension—­“I hear that Farmer Jocelyn died suddenly last night.  Is it true?”

Both men nodded gravely.

“Yes, sir, it’s true—­more’s the pity!  It’s took us all aback.”

“Ay, ay!” and Mr. Medwin nodded blandly—­“No doubt-no doubt!  But I suppose the farm will go on just the same?—­there will be no lack of employment?”

The man who was smoking looked doubtful.

“Nobuddy can tell—­m’appen the place will be sold—­m’appen it won’t.  The hands may be kept, or they may be given the sack.  There’s only Mr. Clifford left now, an’ ’e ain’t a Jocelyn.”

“Does that matter?” and the reverend gentleman smiled with the superior air of one far above all things of mere traditional sentiment.  “There is the girl—­”

“Ah, yes!  There’s the girl!”

The speakers looked at one another.

“Her position,” continued Mr. Medwin, meditatively tracing a pattern on the ground with the end of his walking-stick, “seems to me to be a little unfortunate.  But I presume she is really the daughter of our deceased friend?”

The man who was smoking took the pipe from his mouth and stared for a moment.

“Daughter she may be,” he said, “but born out o’ wedlock anyhow—­ an’ she ain’t got no right to Briar Farm unless th’ owd man ’as made ‘er legal.  An’ if ’e’s done that it don’t alter the muddle, ‘cept in the eyes o’ the law which can twist ye any way—­for she was born bastard, an’ there’s never been a bastard Jocelyn on Briar Farm all the hundreds o’ years it’s been standin’!”

Mr. Medwin again interested himself in a dust pattern.

“Ah, dear, dear!” he sighed—­“Very sad, very sad!  Our follies always find us out, if not while we live, then when we die!  I’m sorry!  Farmer Jocelyn was not a Churchman—­no!—­a regrettable circumstance!—­still, I’m sorry!  He was a useful person in the parish—­quite honest, I believe, and a very fair and good master—­”

“None better!” chorussed his listeners.

“True!  None better.  Well, well!  I’ll just go up to the house and see if I can be of any service, or—­or comfort—–­”

One of the men smiled darkly.

“Sartin sure Farmer Jocelyn’s as dead as door-nails.  If so be you are a-goin’ to Briar Farm, Mr. Medwin!” he said—­“Why, you never set foot in the place while ‘e was a livin’ man!”

“Quite correct!” and Mr. Medwin nodded pleasantly—­“I make it a rule never to go where I’m not wanted.”  He paused, impressively,—­ conscious that he had “scored.”  “But now that trouble has visited the house I consider it my duty to approach the fatherless and the afflicted.  Good-day!”

He walked off then, treading ponderously and wearing a composed and serious demeanour.  The men who had spoken with him were quickly joined by two or three others.

“Parson goin’ to the Farm?” they enquired.

“Ay!”