On her way to the cart she stopped for a moment to look at a pile of faggots that were stacked in a partly concealed corner inside the garden gate. “Jane,” she said, “I think there have been some depredations among the wood lately.” “I saw two lads stealing a bit the other morning,” Jane answered. “We must take steps to prevent it occurring again.” “There’s plenty of wood, too, about here,” said Jane; “I don’t see why they should take ours; but I think they were tramps and wanted to make a fire. I thought I’d speak to the policeman—but I couldn’t catch him when he went by on his beat last night.” “I should like to speak to him myself: at what time does he pass?” “Well, ma’am, he is generally pretty punctual at about half-past eight.” “If you see him this evening you can tell me”—and she got into the governess-cart. “Jane,” she said, looking back, “I forgot to tell you that your master and I will dine at half-past seven. I shall probably bring back a chicken.” She said the last words almost recklessly as she set off to the station. She looked back towards the cottage, but though Alfred Wimple had strolled down to the gate after she had left it, his face was turned towards Liphook. There was something almost fierce in her voice as she spoke to the gardener, who was driving. “The pony seems inclined to procrastinate—you had better chastise him.” “They have spoiled him up at the house,” said Lucas, “till he won’t go nohow unless he gets a bit of the whip.” “He goes very well with me,” she snapped. “He knows your hand, most likely—they do get to know hands; do you find him shy much?” She made no answer, but looked at the holes of the sand martens in the cutting on one side of the road—they always fascinated her—and at the bell heather, which was just beginning to show a tinge of colour. “He’s a bad ’un to shy, he is,” Lucas went on; “and he’s not particular what it’s at—wheel-barrows, and umbrellas, and perambulators, and covered carts, and tramps—he don’t like tramps, he don’t—and bicycles, and children if there’s a few of ’em together, and bits of paper on the road—he’s ready to be afraid of anything. There’s Tom Mitchell coming along with the letters—would you like to stop?” “I do not expect any, but I may as well put the question to him,” the old lady said, very distantly, for she was of opinion that Lucas talked too much for his station. But he was not to be abashed easily. “Them beeches is coming on,” he said. Aunt Anne looked up, but made no answer. “Everything is so late this year on account of the cold. Tom, have you got any letters for Mrs. Wimple at the cottage?” “There’s one, I know, with a foreign postmark.” The man stopped and took a packet out of the leather wallet by his side.