‘Nay now, nay now,’ cried Mrs. Belbin authoritatively, ‘’t will be this way, as you’ll soon see. Mr. Fiander will ha’ left the widow his money and farm and all, as long as she do be a widow, but if she goes for to change her state, why then o’ coorse it’ll go to somebody else. There never was a man livin’—and more particularly a old one—as could make up his mind to leave his money behind him for a woman to spend on another man. That’ll be it, ye’ll find. Mrs. Fiander’ll keep her money as long as she d’ keep her mournin’.’ ‘Here be master, now,’ announced her opposite neighbour, craning her head a little further out of the doorway. ‘The poor man, he do look upset and sorrowful.’ The eyes of all the little party fixed themselves on the approaching figure. Mr. Sharpe was clad in Sunday gear of prosperous broadcloth, and wore, somewhat on the back of his head, a tall hat so antiquated as to shape and so shaggy as to texture that the material of which it was composed may possibly have been beaver. His large face was at that moment absolutely devoid of all expression; Mrs. Paddock’s remark, therefore, seemed to be dictated by a somewhat lively imagination. He nodded absently as the women greeted him, which they did very respectfully, as both their husbands worked under him, but wheeled round after he had passed the group to address Mrs. Paddock. ‘I’ll take those chicken off you as you was a-speakin’ on if you’ll fetch ’em up to my place to-week. The fox have a-took a lot of mine, and I be loath to disappoint my customers.’ ‘I’ll fetch ’em up, sir, so soon as I can. These be terrible times, Mr. Sharpe, bain’t they? Sich losses as we’ve a-had last week! The fox he ’ve a-been terrible mischeevous; and poor Mr. Fiander—he were took very unexpected, were n’t he?’ ‘Ah!’ agreed Mr. Sharpe. ‘You’ll be the one to miss him, sir. As we was sayin’, Mrs. Belbin and me, Mr. Sharpe ’ull be the one to miss him. Ye did use to go there every Sunday reg’lar, Mr. Sharpe, did n’t ye?’ ‘Ah!’ agreed the farmer again. His large face seemed just as expressionless as before, but a close observer might have detected a sudden suffusion of colour to the eyelids. ‘They d’ say as Mrs. Fiander be takin’ on terrible,’ put in Mrs. Belbin, folding her arms across her ample bosom, and settling herself for a good chat with an air of melancholy enjoyment. ‘She is a nice young woman—yes, she’s that; and the marriage did turn out wonderful well, though folks did think it a bit foolish o’ Mr. Fiander to choose sich a young maid at his time o’ life. But he was lonesome, poor man, losing his first wife so long ago, and the children dying so young, and his second missus bein’ took too. But, well, as I d’ say, the last marriage turned out wonderful well; there was never a word said again’ Mrs. Fiander.’ ‘There was never a word _to_ be said,’ returned Mr. Sharpe somewhat sternly.