“For you,” said Bundock implacably. “Mrs. Flynt, Frog Farm, Swash End, Little Bradmarsh, near Chipstone, Essex. Not that I hold it’s proper to write to a man’s wife while he’s alive—but _my_ feelings don’t count.” And he tendered her the letter. “It does seem more becoming for Flynt to have his Cousin Caroline’s letter,” admitted Martha, shrinking back meekly. Bundock relaxed in beams. “I’m wonderfully pleased with you, Mrs. Flynt,” he said, handing Caleb the letter. “You’re a shining example, for all you stand up for that chit. When I think of Deacon Mawhood’s wife and how she defies him with that bonnet of hers——!” “What sort of bonnet?” said Martha, pricking up her ears. “You haven’t heard?” Bundock’s satisfaction increased. “It’s like the Queen’s—drat her! I mean, drat Mrs. Mawhood—made with that new plait—‘Brilliant’s’ the name. They turn the border of one edge of the straw inwards and that makes it all splendiferous.” “Pomps and wanities,” groaned Caleb. “And she a deacon’s wife!” Bundock sniggered. _His_ sympathy with the husband was deeper and older than theology. “I told you,” Martha reminded Caleb, “what would come of electing a ratcatcher a deacon.” “A righteous ratcatcher,” maintained Caleb sturdily, “be higher than a hungodly emperor.” “You haven’t got any emperors,” said the practical Martha. “And how many kings have joined your Ecclesia?” put in Bundock. “All the kings of righteousness!” answered Martha in trumpet-tones. Bundock was quelled. “Well, I can’t stop gammicking,” he said, shouldering his bag. “Won’t you have a glass of pagles wine?” said Martha, relapsing to earth. “No, thank you. I’ve got a letter for Frog Cottage too!” “For Master Peartree!” cried Martha. “And all in one morning. Well, if that’s not a miracle!” “You and your miracles!” he said with a Tom Paine brutality. “Why I saved up yours till another came for Swash End. And so I’ve managed to kill——” His face suddenly changed. The brutal look turned beatific. But his sentence was frozen. The good couple regarded him dubiously. “What’s amiss?” cried Martha. Bundock gasped for expression like a salmon on a slab. “To kill” burst from his lips again, but the rest was choked in a spasm of cachinnation. “You’ll kill yourself laughin’,” said Caleb. Bundock mastered himself with a mighty effort. “So as to kill—ha, ha, ha!—to kill—ha, ha, ha!—two frogs—ha, ha, ha!—with one stone!” Martha corrected him coldly: “Two birds, you mean.” “Ay,” corroborated Caleb, “the proverb be two birds.” “But here,” Bundock explained between two convulsions, “it’s two _frogs_.” Caleb shook his head. “Oi’ve lived here or by the saltings afore you was born, and brought up a mort o’ childer here. Two birds, sonny, two birds.” Bundock’s closing chuckles died into ineffable contempt. “Good morning,” he said firmly. “You’re sure you won’t have a sip o’ pagles wine?” repeated Martha.