“Simon,” commanded the Ancient, “hold thy tongue, lad; I says again, if Peter’s been an’ rose Prue’s ’opes only to dash ’em ’t will be a bad day for Prue, you mark my words; Prue’s a lass as don’t love easy, an’ don’t forget easy.”

“Why, true, Gaffer, true, God bless ’er!”

“She be one as ‘ud pine—­slow an’ quiet, like a flower in the woods, or a leaf in autumn—­ah! fade, she would, fade an’ fade!”

“Well, she bean’t a-goin’ to do no fadin’, please the Lord!”

“Not if me an’ Peter an’ you can ’elp it, Simon, my bye—­but we ‘m but poor worms, arter all, as the Bible says; an’ if Peter ’as been an’ rose ’er ‘opes o’ freein’ Jarge, an’ don’t free Jarge —­if Jarge should ‘ave to go a convic’ to Austrayley, or—­or t’ other place, why then—­she’ll fade, fade as ever was, an’ be laid in the churchyard afore ’er poor old grandfeyther!”

“Lord, Old Un!” exclaimed Simon, “who’s a-talkin’ o’ fadin’s an’ churchyards?  I don’t like it—­let’s talk o’ summ’at else.”

“Simon,” said the Ancient, shaking his head reprovingly, “ye be a good bye—­ah! a steady, dootiful lad ye be, I don’t deny it; but the Lord aren’t give you no imagination, which, arter all, you should be main thankful for; a imagination’s a troublesome thing —­aren’t it, Peter?”

“It is,” said I, “a damnable thing!”

“Ay—­many’s the man as ’as been ruinated by ’is imagination —­theer was one, Nicodemus Blyte were ’is name—­”

“And a very miserable cove ’e sounds, too!” added Simon.

“But a very decent, civil-spoke, quiet young chap ’e were!” continued the Ancient, “only for ’is imagination; Lord! ’e were that full o’ imagination ’e couldn’t drink ’is ale like an ordinary chap—­sip, ‘e’d go, an’ sip, sip, till ’twere all gone, an’ then ’e’d forget as ever ’e’d ‘ad any, an’ go away wi’out paying for it—­if some ’un didn’t remind ’im—­”

“’E were no fule, Old Un!” nodded Simon.

“An’ that weren’t all, neither, not by no manner o’ means,” the Ancient continued.  “I’ve knowed that theer chap sit an’ listen to a pretty lass by the hour together an’ never say a word—­not one!”

“Didn’t git a chance to, p’r’aps?” said Simon.

“It weren’t that, no, it were jest ‘is imagination a-workin’ an’ workin’ inside of ‘im, an’ fillin’ ’im up.  ’Ows’ever, at last, one day, ‘e up an’ axed ’er to marry ‘im, an’ she, bein’ all took by surprise, said ‘yes,’ an’ went an’ married some’un else.”

“Lord!” said Simon, “what did she go and marry another chap for?”

“Simon,” returned the Ancient, “don’t go askin’ fulish questions.  ‘Ows’ever, she did, an’ poor Nicodemus growed more imaginative than ever; arter that, ’e took to turnips.”

“Turnips?” exclaimed Simon, staring.

“Turnips as ever was!” nodded the Ancient, “used to stand, for hours at a time, a-lookin’ at ‘is turnips an’ shakin’ ’is ’ead over ’em.”

“But—­what for?—­a man must be a danged fule to go shakin’ of ’is ‘ead over a lot o’ turnips!”