“Mister Jocelyn!  Mister Jocelyn!  You’re wanted!”

“There’s Priscilla calling Uncle in,” he said, and making a hollow of his hands he shouted: 

“Hullo, Priscilla!  What is it?”

The sunbonnet gave an upward jerk in his direction and the wearer shrilled out: 

“Doctor’s come!  Wantin’ yer Uncle!”

The old man, who had been so long quietly seated on the upturned barrel, now rose stiffly, and knocking out the ashes of his pipe turned towards the farmhouse.  But before he went he raised his straw hat again and stood for a moment bareheaded in the roseate glory of the sinking sun.  Innocent sprang upright on the load of hay, and standing almost at the very edge of it, shaded her eyes with one hand from the strong light, and looked at him.

“Dad!” she called—­“Dad, shall I come?”

He turned his head towards her.

“No, lass, no!  Stay where you are, with Robin.”

He walked slowly, and with evident feebleness, across the length of the field which divided him from the farmhouse garden, and opening the green gate leading thereto, disappeared.  The sun-bonneted individual called Priscilla walked or rather waddled towards the hay-waggon, and setting her arms akimbo on her broad hips, looked up with a grin at the young people on top.

“Well!  Ye’re a fine couple up there!  What are ye a-doin’ of?”

“Never mind what we’re doing,” said Robin, impatiently.  “I say, Priscilla, do you think Uncle Hugo is really ill?”

Priscilla’s face, which was the colour of an ancient nutmeg, and almost as deeply marked with contrasting lines of brown and yellow, showed no emotion.

“He ain’t hisself,” she said, bluntly.

“No,” said Innocent, seriously,—­“I’m sure he isn’t.”  Priscilla jerked her sunbonnet a little further back, showing some tags of dusty grey hair.

“He ain’t been hisself for this past year,” she went on—­“Mr. Slowton, bein’ only a kind of village physic-bottle, don’t know much, an’ yer uncle ain’t bin satisfied.  Now there’s another doctor from London staying up ’ere for ’is own poor ’elth, and yer Uncle said he’d like to ’ave ‘is opinion,—­so Mr. Slowton, bein’ obligin’ though ignorant, ’as got ’im in to see yer Uncle, and there they both is, in the best parlour, with special wine an’ seedies on the table.”

“Oh, it’ll be all right!” said Robin, cheerfully,—­“Uncle Hugo is getting old, of course, and he’s a bit fanciful.”

Priscilla sniffed the air.

“Mebbe—­and mebbe not!  What are you two waitin’ for now?”

“For the men to come back with Roger.  Then we’ll haul home.”

“You’ll ’ave to wait a bit longer, I’m thinkin’,” said Priscilla—­ “They’s all drinkin’ beer in the yard now an’ tappin’ another barrel to drink at when the waggon comes in.  There’s no animals on earth as ever thirsty as men!  Well, good luck t’ye!  I must go, or there’ll be a smell of burnin’ supper-cakes.”