‘Well, it was a wonderful dream, Mrs. Paddock. I’m not surprised as you be feelin’ a bit poorly to-day. ’T is astonishing what folks d’ dream when they’re upset. I do assure ye when my stummick’s a bit out of order I’m hag-rid all night. Last Sunday ’t was, I did dream I seed a great big toad sittin’ on piller, and I hollered out and hit at him, and Belbin he cotched me by the hand, “Good gracious!” says he, “what be’st thumpin’ me like that for?” “Why,” says I, “bain’t there a toad on piller?” “Nay now,” says he, “there’s nothin’ at all; but you’ve a-hit me sich a crack upon the chops that I’ll lay I’ll have the toothache for a week.”’ ‘I’d never go for to say as dreams did n’t mean summat, though,’ said Mrs. Paddock. ‘Aye, I’ve great faith in dreams and tokens and sich. Ye mind old Maria Gillingham? Folks always used to think her a bit of a witch, but she never did nobody much harm seemingly. It were but the day before she died as I did meet her. “You look poorly, Maria,” says I. “I be like to be poorly, Mrs. Paddock,” says she. “I’m near my end,” she says. “I ’ve had a token.” “You don’t tell me?” says I. “Yes,” she said. “I were a-sittin’ in chimbly corner just now, and three great blue-bottles did come flyin’ in wi’ crape upon their wings, and they did fly three times round my head, and they did say, _Soon gone_! _Soon gone_! _Soon gone_!”’ ‘Ah,’ commented Mrs. Belbin, ‘and she were soon gone, were n’t she?’ ‘She were,’ agreed Mrs. Paddock lugubriously. ‘They did find her lyin’ wi’ her head under the table next day, stone dead. . . . But here’s Rose Bundy a-comin’ down the road. Well, Rose, was the widow in church?’ ‘Ay, I seed her,’ cried Rose, a fat red-cheeked girl, with round black eyes at this moment gleaming with excitement. ‘She did have on such lovely weeds—ye never saw such weeds. There was crape on ’em very nigh all over. She did have a great long fall as did come to her knees very near, and another much the same a-hanging down at the back o’ her bonnet, and her skirt was covered with crape—and I think there was truly more black than white to her han’kercher. Ah, it was a-goin’ all the time under her veil—fust her eyes and then her nose. Poor thing! she do seem to feel her loss dreadful.’ ‘And well she may,’ said Mrs. Paddock emphatically. ‘A good husband same as Fiander bain’t to be picked up every day.’ ‘Why, he was but a old man,’ retorted the girl. ‘Mrs. Fiander’ll soon have plenty o’ young chaps a-comin’ to coort her; they d’ say as Mr. Fiander have a-left her every single penny he had, to do what she likes wi’! She’ll soon take up wi’ some smart young fellow—it is n’t in natur’ to expect a handsome young body same as her to go on frettin’ for ever after a old man, let him be so good as he may.’