“Wonderfully!” said I.

“An’ so strong as a bull?”

“To be sure.”

“An’ t’ stapil can’t last much longer—­eh, maister? so old an’ rusty as ’e be?”

“One would hardly think so.”

“Not so long as a tur’ble vig’rus man, like I be?” he inquired, with a certain wistful appeal in his eyes.

“No,” I answered impulsively.

“I knowed it—­I knowed it,” he chuckled, feebly brandishing his stick, “such a poor old stapil as ‘tis, all eat up wi’ rust.  Every time I come ‘ere a-gatherin’ watercress, I come in an’ give un a look, an’ watch un rustin’ away, an’ rustin’ away; I’ll see un go fust, arter all, so I will!” and, with another nod at the staple, he turned, and hobbled out into the sunshine.

And seeing how, despite his brave showing, he labored to carry the heavy basket, I presently took it from him, disregarding his protests, and set off by his side; yet, as we went, I turned once to look back at the deserted hut.

“You ‘m thinkin’ ’tis a tur’ble bad place at night?” said the old man.

“On the contrary,” I answered, “I was thinking it might suit a homeless man like me very well indeed.”

“D’ye mean—­to live there?” exclaimed the Ancient.

“Yes,” said I.

“Then you bean’t afraid o’ the ghost?”

“No,” I answered.

“P’r’aps you be one o’ they fules as think theer bean’t no ghosts?”

“As to that,” I answered, “I don’t know, but I don’t think I should be much afraid, and it is a great blessing to have some spot on this unfriendly world that we can call ’home’—­even though it be but a hut, and haunted.”

In a little while the path we followed led up a somewhat steep ascent which, though not so precipitous as the place where I had entered the hollow, was a difficult climb, notwithstanding; seeing which, I put out a hand to aid my aged companion.  But he repulsed me almost sharply: 

“Let be,” he panted, “let be, nobody’s never ’elped me up this ‘ere path, an’ nobody never shall!” So up we went, the Ancient and I, side by side, and very slowly, until, the summit being reached, he seated himself, spent and breathless, upon a fallen tree, which had doubtless served this purpose many times before, and mopped at his wrinkled brow with a trembling hand.

“Ye see,” he cried, as soon as he had recovered his breath sufficiently, “ye see, I be wunnerful spry an’ active—­could dance ye a hornpipe any day, if I was so minded.”

“On my word,” said I, “I believe you could!  But where are you going now?”

“To Siss’n’urst!”

“How far is that?”

“‘Bout a mile acrost t’ fields, you can see the pint o’ Joel Amos’s oast-’ouse above the trees yonder.”

“Is there a good inn at Sissinghurst?”

“Ay, theer’s ‘The Bull,’ comfortable, an’ draws fine ale!”

“Then I will go to Sissinghurst.”

“Ay, ay,” nodded the old man, “if it be good ale an’ a comfortable inn you want you need seek no further nor Siss’n’urst; ninety an’ one years I’ve lived there, an’ I know.”