“Coortin’? Well, we don’t see so much o’ that--not these times. The young chaps be all for bicylin’ these days; they wouldn’t be bothered wi’ travellin’ in my cart. But I do mind one queer thing what happened many years ago now--dally! ’twas the very queerest thing as ever I knowed, or did happen in these parts. “’Twas one Tuesday. I wur jist puttin’ in Whitefoot, an’ a few o’ my fares was a-standin’ about waitin’ for I to be ready to start, when I see a great big fellow marchin’ down the hill from Old’s. “‘Goin’ Branston-way?’ says he with a nod to I. “‘E-es,’ I says, ‘I be goin’ Branston-way. Be you a stranger?’ says I. ‘All the folks as lives about here do know as Branston is my way.’ “‘I’m a stranger and I’m not a stranger,’ says he. ‘My folks used to live here. I used to live with my grandfather up yonder at Whitethorns,’ he says. ‘He was called old Jesse Taylor--d’ye mind him?’ “‘I mind him very well,’ says I. ‘A fine wold fellow.’ “‘Well, I come here to have a look at his grave,’ says the young chap. ‘’Twas a notion I had.’ “‘Let me see,’ says I, turnin’ round to look at ’en as I were a-climbin’ into the cart, for Whitefoot was hitched by this time, ‘let me see who mid you be then? Wold Taylor had nigh upon farty grandchildren--I heard ’en say so many a time.’ “‘Oh, I’m one of Abel’s lot,’ says he; ‘Abel Taylor was my father’s name. He emigrated wi’ half a dozen of us when I was a little lad no higher than the shaft there; my name is Jim Taylor. I have spent most of my life in the States; I scarce call myself a Britisher now,’ says he. “‘Dear, to be sure,’ says Mrs. Mayne, what was a-standin’ by, ‘’tis very sad for to hear ye say that, Mr. Taylor. Ye must feel very mournful havin’ to live out abroad.’ “‘I don’t know that,’ says he. He was a honest, good-natured-lookin’ chap, but when he says ‘I don’t know that’ he looked real melancholy. There; ye’d think some awful misfortune had happened. ‘I don’t know that,’ he says; ‘there’s good and bad all over the world, and there’s as much bad as good in England, I guess.’ “He had a funny way o’ talking: ‘I guess,’ he says, meanin’ for to say ‘I d’ ’low’. “They was all in the cart by this time, an’ Whitefoot was a-trottin’ out so brisk as could be. He was a young mare then, and ’twas a Tuesday, as I say, an’ he knowed he’d have only the empties to carry along. “Wold Maria Robbins was a-sittin’ jist behind Jim Taylor--a great talker she was, al’ays ready to gossip about her neighbours. She did sit a-starin’ an’ a-starin’ at this here Jim Taylor till I reckon he felt her eyes fixed on ’en, for he turns round smilin’ wi’ some talk about the weather. But ’twasn’t the weather as Maria did want to be talkin’ on. “‘I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor,’ says she, ‘as you’ve a-been disappointed like in your country,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry England didn’t come up to your expectations.’ “He laughed and began pulling at his girt brown beard. “‘’Twill maybe l’arn me not to expect too much,’ he says.