little need for Rachel to
talk at all when once her hostess had entered upon this absorbing topic,
and when the old maid arose to go she had altogether recovered from the
effect of whatever emotion had assailed her.

She walked homeward so prim, so old, so withered, that ninety-nine in a
hundred would have laughed to know that she was living in the heart of
a love-story, and that story her own. But we rarely grow old enough to
forget our own griefs, howsoever cold the frost of age may make us to
the griefs of others.

CHAPTER VIII.

The young Sennacherib, swaggering gayly from his unnatural parent's
door, was aware of something as nearly approaching a flutter as not
often disturbed the picturesque dulness of the village main street. By
some unusual chance there were half a dozen people in the road, and not
only did these turn to stare at him, but at least half a dozen others
peered at him from behind the curtains of cottage interiors, or boldly
flattened their noses against the bulbous little panes of glass in the
diamonded windows.

"Theer's a look of summat stirrin' i' the place, gaffer," said Snac to
one ancient of the village.

"Why, yis, Mr. Eld, theer is that sort of a air about the plaeas to-day,"
the old fellow answered, with a fine unconsciousness. "But then theer
mostly _is_ a bit of a crowd round our town pump."

The crowd about the town pump consisted of one slatternly small girl and
a puppy.

"Can't a chap call on his feyther 'ithout the Midland counties turnin'
out to look at him?" Snac asked, smilingly.

"Yis," returned the ancient, who was conveniently deaf on a sudden.
"Theer's been no such fine ripenin' weather for the wheat sence I wur a
lad."

Snac gave the riding-whip he carried a burlesque threatening flourish,
and the old boy grinned humorously.

"Sin Joseph Beaker this mornin', Mr. Eld?" he asked.

"No," said Snac. "What about him?"

"His lordship's gi'en him a set o' togs," said the old rustic, "an'
he's drunker wi' the joy on 'em than iver I was with ode ale at
harvest-time."

"Aha!" cried Snac, scenting a jest. "Wheer is he?"

"Why, theer he is!" said the rustic, and turning, Snac beheld Joseph
Beaker at that moment shambling round the corner of the graveyard wall,
followed closely by the youth of the village. The Earl of Barfield had
kept his promise, and had bestowed upon Joseph a laced waistcoat--a
waistcoat which had not been worn since the first decade of the cen