"Us could shove one in a box," said Jane, "and tell the miller to zend un in his cart. He wouldn't knaw, doan't ee zee?" They actually carried this idea into execution, and sent the miller's cart off with the feather bed. Probably, in all their days, the two old hags had never so thoroughly enjoyed themselves as when thus turning everything upside-down, and rioting at their will. It was a curious fact that not for one moment did they reflect that detection must of necessity quickly follow. They had lived all their lives in the narrow boundary of the lonely hill-parish, and the force of habit made all beyond seem so distant that, if they could but once escape out of the hamlet, they did not doubt they would be safe. At last, seeing nothing else they could lay hands on, they came down into the great parlour just before sunset, and heard the tramp of the wearyful women approaching. "We'd better go now," said the nurse. "What had us better do with _he_?" jerking her thumb towards the senseless clay in the beehive chair. "Aw, thur bean't no call to move un," said Jane; "let un bide. Nobody won't knaw as a' be dead vor a day or two. Come on, you,"--making for the back-door. The wearyful women as they passed the window had curtseyed to the dead. The luminous sunset, filling the chamber with its magical glamour, had lit up the cold, drawn features with a rosy glow. But the dimmed eyeball had not seen the flames of that conflagration sweeping up from the west:-- Dies irae, dies illa. The wrath, long withheld, must come at last. "I fear there has been robbery here," said Felix, as, with the shepherd, he re-entered the gloomy house. "It do seem zo; the things be drowed about mainly. A'wuver it sarves un right." "Hush!" said Felix, and thought to himself, "How terrible it is to be hated even when dead! We will go over the house," he added aloud, "and see if anything has been taken." In the bedchamber they found ample evidence of looting. Felix, even in his indignation, could not resist his antiquarian tastes. He took up an ancient deed, and while he glanced over it, the shepherd pretended to tie his shoe-lace, and pocketed a spade-guinea which the crones had dropped on the floor. "Who is there that could take charge of the place?" asked Felix presently. "Thur be the bailie." "Go and bring him." The shepherd went; and Felix, to pass the time, took a book from an old black chest of drawers, with brass rings and lions' heads for handles. It was a small quarto, a.d. 1650, a kind of calendar of astrology, medicine, and agriculture, telling the farmer when the conjunction of the planets was favourable for purchasing stock or sowing seed. When, presently, the bailiff came--a respectable man enough for his station-- Felix, in his presence, locked the upper rooms and took the keys with him. Then, leaving the house in the bailiff's charge, he rode through the starlit night, by the lonely highway, homeward. CHAPTER TEN. A FRAY.