"What next," echoed the sexton, Adam Frost, who on hearing his name brought into the argument, showed himself at once ready to respond to it. "Why next we'll not have a tree of any size anywhere near the village, for if timber's to be sold, sold it will be, and the only person we'll be able to rely on for a bit of green shade or shelter will be Passon Walden, who wouldn't have a tree cut down anywhere on his land, no, not if he was starving. Ah! If the old Squire were alive he'd sooner have had his own 'ead chopped off than the Five Sisters laid low!" By this time a considerable number of the villagers had gathered round Roger Buggins as the centre of the discussion,--some out of curiosity, and others out of a vague and entirely erroneous idea that perhaps if they took the proper side of the argument 'refreshers' in the way of draughts of home-brewed ale at the 'Mother Huff' between church hours might be offered as an amicable end to the conversation. "Someone should tell Miss Vancourt about it; she's coming home to the Manor on Tuesday," suggested the barmaid of the 'Mother Huff,' a smart-looking young woman, who was however looked upon with grave suspicion by her feminine neighbours, because she dressed 'beyond her station'; "P'raps she'd do something?" "Not she!" said Frost, cynically; "She's a fine lady,--been livin' with 'Mericans what will eat banknotes for breakfast in order to write about it to the papers arterwards. Them sort of women takes no 'count o' trees, except to make money out of 'em." Here there was a slight stir among the group, as they saw a familiar figure slowly approaching them,--that of a very old man, wearing a particularly clean smock-frock and a large straw hat, who came out from under the church porch like a quaint, moving, mediaeval Dutch picture. Shuffling along, one halting step at a time, and supporting himself on a stout ash stick, this venerable personage made his way, with a singular doggedness and determination of movement, up to the group of gossips. Arriving among them he took off his straw hat, and producing a blue spotted handkerchief from its interior wiped the top of his bald head vigorously. "Now, what are ye at?" he said slowly; "What are ye at? All clickettin' together like grasshoppers in a load of hay! What's the mischief? Whose character are ye bitin' bits out of, like mice in an old cheese? Eh? Lord! Lord! Eighty-nine years o' livin' wi' ye, summer in and summer out, don't improve ye,--talk to ye as I will and as I may, ye're all as mis'able sinners as ever ye was, and never a saint among ye 'cept the one in the Sarky Fagus." Here, pausing for breath, the ancient speaker wiped his head again, carefully flattening down with the action a few stray wisps of thin white hair, while a smile of tranquil and superior wisdom spread itself among the countless wrinkles of his sun-browned face, like a ray of winter sunshine awakening rippling reflections on a half- frozen pool.