. Gilmore had lived at Bullhampton all his life, and,
without much thought on the subject, knew Bullhampton ways. The
jacket which the man wore was a town-made jacket, a jacket that had
come farther a-field even than Salisbury; and the man's gaiters had a
savour which was decidedly not of Wiltshire. Dark as it was, he could
see so much as this. "Good night, my friend," said Gilmore, in a
sharp cheery voice. The man muttered something, and passed on as
though to the village. There had, however, been something in his
position which made Gilmore think that the stranger had intended
to trespass on his friend's garden. He crossed the stile into the
fields, however, without waiting,--without having waited for half a
moment, and immediately saw the figure of a second man standing down,
hidden as it were in the ditch; and though he could discover no more
than the cap and shoulders of the man through the gloom, he was sure
he knew who it was that owned the cap and shoulders. He did not speak
again, but passed on quickly, thinking what he might best do. The
man whom he had seen and recognised had latterly been talked of as a
discredit to his family, and anything but an honour to the usually
respectable inhabitants of Bullhampton.

On the further side of the church from the town was a farmyard, in
the occupation of one of Lord Trowbridge's tenants,--a man who had
ever been very keen at preventing the inroads of trespassers, to
which he had, perhaps, been driven by the fact that his land was
traversed by various public pathways. Now a public pathway through
pasture is a nuisance, as it is impossible to induce those who use
it to keep themselves to one beaten track; but a pathway through
cornfields is worse, for, let what pains may be taken, wheat,
beans, and barley will be torn down and trampled under foot. And
yet in apportioning his rents, no landlord takes all this into
consideration. Farmer Trumbull considered it a good deal, and was
often a wrathful man. There was at any rate no right of way across
his farmyard, and here he might keep as big a dog as he chose,
chained or unchained. Harry Gilmore knew the dog well, and stood for
a moment leaning on the gate.

"Who be there?" said the voice of the farmer.

"Is that you, Mr. Trumbull? It is I,--Mr. Gilmore. I want to get
round to the front of the parson's house."

"Zurely, zurely," said the farmer, coming forward and opening the
gate. "Be there anything wrong about, Squire?"