"Powerful interestin'? O' course it is! There ain't nobody's story wot ain't interestin', if ye onny knows it. An' it's all six-an'- twenty year agone now; but I can see th' owld Squire still, an' the nurse walkin' slow up an' down by the border of the field, hushin' the baby to sleep. And 'twas a good sound baby, too, an' thrived fine; an' 'fore we knew where we was, instid of a baby there was a little gel runnin' wild all over the place, climbin' trees, swannin' up hay-stacks an' up to all sorts of mischief--Lord, Lord!" And Josey began to chuckle with a kind of inward merriment; "I'll never forget the day that child sat down on a wopses' nest an' got all 'er little legs stung;--she was about five 'ear old then, an' she never cried--not she!--the little proud spitfire that she was, she jes' stamped 'er mite of a foot an' she sez, sez she: 'Did God make the wopses?' An' 'er nurse sez to 'er: 'Yes, o' course, lovey, God made 'em.' 'Then I don't think much of Him!' sez she. Lord, Lord! We larfed nigh to split ourselves that arternoon;--we was all makin' 'ay an' th' owld Squire was workin' wi' us for fun-like. 'I don't think much o' God, father!'--sez Miss Maryllia, runnin' up to 'im, an' liftin' up all 'er petticuts an' shewin' the purtiest little legs ye ever seed; 'Nurse sez He made the wopses!' He-ee-ee-hor-hor- hor!" A slow smile was reflected on the faces of the persons who heard this story,--a smile that implied lurking doubt as to whether it was quite the correct or respectful thing to find entertainment in an anecdote which included a description of 'the purtiest little legs' of the lady of the Manor whose return to her native home was so soon expected,--but Josey Letherbarrow was a privileged personage, and he might say what others dared not. As philosopher, general moralist and purveyor of copy-book maxims, he was looked upon in the village as the Nestor of the community, and in all discussions or disputations was referred to as final arbitrator and judge. Born in St. Rest, he had never been out of it, except on an occasional jaunt to Riversford in the carrier's cart. He had married a lass of the village, who had been his playmate in childhood, and who, after giving him four children, had died when she was forty,--the four children had grown up and in their turn had married and died; but he, like a hardy old tree, had still lived on, with firm roots well fixed in the soil that had bred him. Life had now become a series of dream pictures with him, representing every episode of his experience. His mind was clear, and his perception keen; he seldom failed to recollect every detail of a circumstance when once the clue was given, and the right little cell in his brain was stirred. To these qualities he added a stock of good sound common sense, with a great equableness of temperament, though he could be cynical, and even severe, when occasion demanded. Just now, however, his