“’Er husband were organist, and when ’e died—though, by the way, ’e were younger than Mrs. Finucane, and they do say were at college with the parson—well, when ’e died it were found that Mrs. Finucane were a pauper, and wur as like as not to ’ave to go to the workus, but the parson, ’e says to the Squire, ‘If you’ll put down a pound a week for life, I’ll put down a pound a week for life also,’ and so ’twas done. Sir Robert couldn’t for shame’s sake refuse, seeing that Mr. Finucane had saved his son’s life, and so Mrs. Finucane be comfortable enough, ’er cottage being ’er own. They do say that the Squire wur none too willing to do it, though.” “Does Mrs. Finucane live in the village?” I knew it was quite unnecessary to ask exactly where she lived, as every villager loves to maunder on, and give any inquirer details concerning his neighbours gratis. “She lives in the cottage just before you come to the ’ill. You’ll know it, for it be covered with red berries.” I went and had a look at Mrs. Finucane’s cottage. It was called ‘The Glebe,’ and had a mass of creeper with red berries over the front. Through the bars of the high garden gate I could just see a little green with the bare flower-beds of winter round it. I inspected the house from every point of view. Where the yew-hedge which surrounded the garden was somewhat thin I could see through and into the pleasant parlour. On this cold autumn day a bright fire was burning in the grate, and drawn up before it was a little table with a chess-board, on either side of which sat Mr. Gascoyne and Mrs. Finucane. By this table was a smaller one with a cosy-looking tea-urn on a snowy cover, flanked with plates of hot toast and muffins. It was a homely and pleasant sight to contemplate, and reminded me of one of those inimitable scenes of village life which more than one of our lady novelists has depicted with so much spirit and truth. Strange it is, but such literature as Miss Austin’s _Emma_ and Mrs. Gaskell’s _Cranford_ has always charmed me more than any other, on the same principle, I suppose, that a complex character responds to simplicity. Country folk do not appreciate rural sweets as does the knowing Cockney. It seemed impossible that I could gain admission to the house. It was as secure from any intrusion as if it had been a royal palace guarded at every gate. From my point of vantage I watched the movements of the two inside carefully. I was screened from the observation of the village. In a minute or so they abandoned the attractions of the chess-table for those of tea and muffins.