“Get along with ’ee with yeer hooshing. It’s only the truth that I am speaking,” exclaimed the young woman. Doubtless an altercation would have ensued, but the subject was dropped upon the appearance of a stranger. This was Peace, who had finished his repast in the parlour, and strolled into the skittle-ground. “Your sarvant, sir,” said one of the rustics to Peace. “Give you good evening, friend,” said our hero. “Good evening to one and all.” The villagers made room for him on one of the forms which ran by the side of the building, and Peace sat himself down. “Ha’ the first drink of the new pot,” said a broad-shouldered man to a companion by his side, “an’ don’t ’ee cuss and swear. I hate to hear a man swear for nothing.” “I’m not going to drink your froth for ’ee,” returned the other. “I’ll ha’ some. An’ you’ll find it as thick as molasses, I’ll warrant. Bricket poured a lot of beer into a barrel without clearing out the dregs, and a prutty mess he’s made of it. The way business is done here now would make his dead wife walk if anythin’ could.” “What, yer grumbling agen as usual?” said another of the company. “Don’t be a runnin’ down Bricket, for he’s a good sort.” “Who says he aint?” cried Nelly; “but some people are never satisfied.” “Right you are, lass!” exclaimed several, for it was evident enough that the young woman was a general favourite. “Aint nobody seen nothin’ of never a hat nowhere?” inquired a thin old man in a querulous voice, twisting in and out of the crowd like a ferret in a rabbit burrow. “One ’ud think your silly old head were inside on it a wanderin’ about like that there,” said Nelly. “Don’t ’ee say much to him,” whispered the woman with a child in her arms. “Poor Nat Peplow has aged wonderful these last three years. He don’t seem like the same man.” “Ho, ho!” guffawed a rustic. “There aint much left of Nat now―― Poor old hoss! poor old hoss! Once I eat the best of hay, And lived in a foine stall; But now I eats the short grass As grows agen the wall. Poor old hoss! poor old hoss! Thee must die.” “Ah! ye may laugh and sing,” said Nat, shaking his head and his voice quavering. “I mind the time when I used to troll that same ditty to grey hairs. It’s right it should fall back on me now.” “Poor old hoss!” chanted Nelly. “But when I wur young I was as lissom as ever a young man here. I baint so strong now as I should be, though when my feyther wur eighty years old he could carry a sack of wheat up a ladder into a granary; and my mother’s hair when she wur an old ’ooman was as black and shiny as jet, and growed over her shoulders like a wild colt’s mane. “I don’t know rightly what mak’s me weaker than they. My arm be a’ withered up like a burnt piece of pig’s flesh, an’ my poor chest do hurt me when I breathes. I think the beer can’t be so wholesome and nourishing as it yoosed to be.” And Nat, taking his half-pint mug from the table, peered into it and found it empty.