“We bain't a-goin' to pass Widder Hotchkiss, be we, governor?” demanded Joseph, who saw through the device. His lordship decided not to hear the question, and walked on a little ahead, swinging the billhook and the saw. Joseph Beaker revolved in his mind his own plan of action. In front of Widow Hotchkiss's cottage the trees were unusually luxuriant, and the boughs hung unusually low. When they were reached, Joseph contrived to entangle his ladder and to bring himself to a stand-still, with every appearance of naturalness. “My blessed!” he mumbled, “this here's a disgrace to the parish, gaffer. Theer's nothin' in all Heydon Hay as can put a patch on it. Thee bissent agoin' past this, beest? Her's as small-sperited as a rabbit--the widder is.” “We'll take it another time, Joseph,” said his lordship, striving to cover his confusion by taking a bigger pinch of snuff than common--“another time, Joseph, another time.” “Well,” said Joseph, tossing his lop-sided head, as if he had at last fathomed the folly and weakness of human nature, and resigned himself to his own mournful discoveries, “I should niver ha' thought it.” He made a show of shouldering the ladder disgustedly, but dropped it again. “We fled afore a little un yesterday,” he said. “I did look for a show o' courage here, governor.” His lordship hesitated. “Why, look at it,” pursued Joseph, waving a hand towards the overhanging verdure; “it 'ud be a sinful crime to go by it.” “Put up the ladder, Joseph,” replied his lordship, in a voice of sudden resolve. The Hotchkiss case was a foregone victory for him, and his own desires chimed with Joseph's arguments, even while he felt himself outgeneralled. The widow sweetened the business by a feeble protest, and the Earl of Barfield was lordly with ner. “Must come down, my good woman,” said his lordship, firmly, “must come down. Obstruct the highway. Disgrace to the parish.” “That's what I said,” mumbled Joseph, as he steadied the ladder from below. The widow watched the process wistfully, and my lord chopped and sawed with unwonted gusto. Branch after branch fell into the lane, and the aged nobleman puffed and sweated with his grateful labor. He had not had such a joyful turn for many a day. The widow moaned like a winter wind in a key-hole, and when his lordship at last descended from his perch she was wiping her eyes with her apron. “I know full well what poor folks has got to put up with at the hands o' them as the Lord has set in authority,” said the widow, “but it's cruel hard to have a body's bits o' trees chopped and lopped i' that way. When ourn was alive his lordship niver laid a hand upon 'em. Ourn 'ud niver ha' bent himself to put up wi' it, that he niver would, and Lord Barfield knows it; for though he was no better nor a market-gardener, he was one o' them as knowed what was becomin' between man and man, be he niver so lowly, and his lordship the lord o' the manor for miles around.”