As they drove down into Rodenham village several of the women ran out to courtesy to the young squire and grin congratulations at him on his recovery. Richard bowed to them with a pleasant color rising in his cheeks. He was a man whose natural desire was to be loved and trusted by his fellows, and any affection that was shown to him inevitably kindled a kindred feeling in his heart. On the steps of the Wheat Sheaf they saw George Gogg standing, his hands thrust into his breeches-pockets under his apron, and a blackened clay pipe between his teeth. Jeffray bade Wilson draw up before the inn while he spoke sympathetically to the old man on the loss of his daughter. George Gogg’s face looked flushed and sodden as though he had been drinking heavily to drown his thoughts. His blue eyes, that seemed to see everything and understand nothing, stared blankly at the roofing of the village pump. “Well, sir,” he said, “Parson Sugg tells me as how it is God’s way of doing things, and I reckon it is a comfortable sort of notion that no man can quarrel with. I mus’ say my poor wench was a purty wench, and I reckon she won’t disgrace ’em up above in the matter of looks. Anyway, the angels have got her, sir, for she was a gal as never did nobody any harm. Her old father can best say ‘hallelujah,’ and think a bit more of trying to climb up after her, and with Parson Sugg’s leave, sir, I’ll hang on to his coat-tails till I feel a bit surer of my feet. Will it please your honor to take a glass of wine?” Jeffray shook Gogg’s hand sympathetically, and declined the courtesy. “You have your boy, Gogg,” he said, kindly. “Yes, I have the boy, sir, and he’s a stocky lad, though a bit fond of helping himself to other folk’s fruit. I am glad to see your honor looking so fit and hearty.” “Thank you, Gogg, I am nearly myself again.” “And I hope, sir, you will be soon saying the same of your good lady—Miss Hardacre.” Jeffray’s face hardened at the innkeeper’s words; the frank, beaming look died out of the eyes, the angles of the sensitive mouth sank instantly. Even this fat fool’s suavity seemed to summon before his eyes all those grim and staring sentimentalities that hemmed him in like a crowd of attorneys. George Gogg’s round person vanished with its white-stockinged legs and dirty apron, and in its place Jeffray beheld the implacable Sir Peter and Mr. Lot’s red and arrogant face. A small crowd of children had gathered about the chaise, their natural impertinence suppressed by a hoped for largesse of pence. Jeffray threw some coppers among them as Wilson flapped the reins on Dame Meg’s back. The brats scrambled and fought for the money, one urchin, a head taller than the rest, concluding the scramble by forcing the pennies from the fists of the feebler competitors. Richard’s munificence had wrought more woe than pleasure. There was much blubbering and squealing, much running together of angry mothers, ready to squabble over their children’s feuds.