“I am well pleased”, &c., continued John Rosedew, sonorously; for he had a magnificent voice, and still regarding the sergeant with a look of tender interest. Even Sir Cradock Nowell could scarcely keep his countenance; but the parson went through the whole of it handsomely and to the purpose, thinking only, throughout it, of Godʼs great mercies to him. So beloved he was already, and so much respected, that none of the congregation had the heart to tell him of his mistake, as he talked with them in the churchyard; though he thought even then that he must have his bands, as he often had, at the back of his neck. But on his way home he overtook an old hobbler, who enjoyed a joke more than a scruple. “How are you, Simon Tapscott? How do you do to–day? Glad to see you at church, Simon”, said the parson, holding his hand out, as he always did to his parishioners, unless they had disgraced themselves. “Purty vair, measter; purty vair I be, vor a woald galley baggar as ave bin in the Low Countries, and dwoant know sin from righteousness”. This last was a gross perversion of a passage in the sermon which had ruffled ancient Simon. “Canʼt goo much, howiver, by rason of the rhymatics. Now cud ’e do it to I, measter? cud ’e do it to I, and Iʼll thraw down bath my critches? Good vor one sojer, good vor anoother”. “Do what for you, Simon? Fill your old canteen, or send you a pound of baccy”? asked the parson, mildly chaffing. “Noo, noo; none o’ that. There baint noo innard parts grace of the Lord in that. Choorch I handsomely, zame as ’e dwoed that strapping soger now jist”. “What, Simon! Why, Simon, do you know what you are saying——” But I cannot bear to tell of John Rosedew humiliated; he was humble enough by nature. So fearful was the parson of renewing that recollection within the sacred walls, that no thanks were offered there for the birth of sweet Amy Rosedew, save by, or on behalf of, that recruiting sergeant. CHAPTER V. When Cradock and Clayton were ten years old, they witnessed a scene which puzzled them, and dwelt long in their boyish memories. Job Hogstaff was going to Ringwood, and they followed him down the passage towards the entrance–hall, emphatically repeating the commissions with which they had charged him. Old Job loved them as if they were his grandsons, and would do his utmost to please them, but they could not trust his memory, or even his capacity. “Now, Job”, cried little Cradock, pulling at his coat–lappet, “itʼs no good pretending that you know all, when you wonʼt even stop to listen. Iʼm sure youʼll go and make some great mistake, as you did last Tuesday. Mind you tell Mr. Stride itʼs for Master Cradock Nowell, and they must be sure to give you a good one, or I shall send it back. Now just tell me what I have told you. I ought to have written it down, but I wasnʼt sure how to spell ‘groove’”. “Why, Master Crad, Iʼm to say a long spill, very sharp at the end”.