"Burn my body, and what's on now?" he said, as the gang reached the church. "Rush-bearing, I reckon," answered Tom o' Dint. "And what's rush-bearing?" "You know, Mister Paul," said the postman, "rush-bearing--the barns rush-bearing--St. Peter's Day, you know." "Oh, ay, I know--rush-bearing. Let me see, ain't it once a year?" "What, man, but you mind the days when you were a bit boy and went a-rushing yersel'?" said the blacksmith. "Coorse, coorse, oh, ay, I ain't forgotten them days. Let me see, it's a kind of a harvest-home, ain't it?" "Nowt o' the sort," said Dick, the miller, testily. "Your memory's failing fast, Mister Ritson." "And that's true, old fence. I'll never be the same man again after that brain fever I had up in London--not in the head-piece, you know." The group of men and dogs had drawn up in front of the church just as Brother Peter crossed the church-yard to the porch, carrying a red paper in his hand. "Who's that--the Methodee man?" "It's the Methodee, for sure," said the blacksmith. "Ey, it's the parson's Peter," added the postman, "and yon paper is a telegraph--it's like he's takin' it to somebody." "Hold hard, my boys," said Drayton; and, leaving his cronies he strode through the lych-gate and down the path, the dogs yapping around him. Brother Peter had drawn up at the door of the porch; the children were still singing. "If that telegram is for my wife, you may hand it over to me," said Drayton, and reached out his hand to take it. Brother Peter drew back. "It'll be all right, old fellow--I'll see she gets it." "Ey, thoo'll manish that, I's warn," said Peter, in a caustic voice. "Come, don't you know that what belongs to the wife belongs to the husband?" "Don't know as I do. I'se never been larn't sec daftness," said Peter. "Hand it over. Come, be quick!" "Get ower me 'at can," said Peter, with a decisive twinkle. "Gi'e him a slab ower the lug," shouted the miller from the road. "You hear what they say? Come, out with it." "Eh, you've rowth o' friends, you're a teeran crew, but I cares laal for any on you." Drayton turned away with a contemptuous snort. "Damme, what a clatter!" he shouted, and leaped on to the raised mound of a grave to look in at an open window. As he did so he kicked a glass for flowers that lay upon it, and the broken frame tumbled in many pieces. "I've done for somebody's money," he said with a loud guffaw. "What, man, but it were thy awn brass as bought it," said the blacksmith. "Ey, it's thy fadder's grave," said Job Sheepshanks. Drayton glanced down at the headstone. "Why, so it is!" he said; "d'ye see, I hain't been here since the day I buried him." "Nay, that's all stuff and nonsense," said Job. "I mind the morning I found ye lying wet and frostit on the top of that grave." "D'ye say so? Well, I ain't for denying it; and now I think of it, I was--yes, I was here that morning."