"Not I, _Aunt_," quoth _Edith_, somewhat wearily, as if she feared Aunt _Joyce_ should bid her go. "Oh, I'll go and see him!" cries _Milly_. "There is nought one half so diverting in all the vale as old _Jack_. _Aunt_, be all _Brownists_ as queer as he?" "Nay, I reckon _Jack_ hath some queer notions of his own, apart from his _Brownery_," quoth she. "But, _Milly_,--be diverted as much as thou wilt, but let not the old man see that thou art a-laughing at him." "All right, _Aunt_!" saith _Milly_, cheerily. "Come, _Nell_. _Edith_ shall bide at home, that can I see." So _Milly_ and I set forth to visit old _Jack_, and _Mother_ gave us a bottle of cordial water, and a little basket of fresh eggs, for to take withal. He dwells all alone, doth old _Jack_, in a mud cot part-way up the mountain, that he did build himself, ere the aches in his bones 'gan trouble him, that he might scantly work. He is one of those queer folk that call themselves _Brownists_, and would fain have some better religion than they may find at church. _Jack_ is nigh alway reading of his Bible, but never no man could so much as guess the strange meanings he brings forth of the words. I reckon, as Aunt _Joyce_ saith, there is more _Jack_ than _Brownist_ in them. We found _Jack_ sitting in the porch, his great Bible on his knees. He looked up when he heard our voices. "Get out!" saith he. "I never want no women folk." 'Tis not oft we have fairer greeting of _Jack_. "Nay, truly, _Jack_," saith _Milly_ right demurely. "They be a rare bad handful,--nigh as ill as men folk. What thou lackest is eggs and cordial water, the which women can carry as well as jackasses." She held forth her basket as she spake. "Humph!" grunts old _Jack_. "I'd liever have the jackasses." "I am assured thou wouldst," quoth _Milly_. "Each loveth best his own kind." Old _Jack_ was fingering of the eggs. "They be all hens' eggs!" "So they be," saith _Milly_. "I dare guess, thou shouldst have loved goose eggs better." "Ducks'," answereth old _Jack_. "The ducks be gone a-swimming," saith she. I now drew forth my bottle of cordial water, the which the old man took off me with never a thank you, and after smelling thereto, set of the ground at his side. "What art reading, _Jack_?" saith _Milly_. "What _Paul's_ got to say again' th' law," quoth he. "'Tis a rare ill thing th' law, Mistress _Milisent_. And so be magistrates, and catchpolls [constables] and all the lawyer folk. Rascals, Mistress _Milisent_,--all rascals, every man Jack of 'em. Do but read _Paul_, and you shall see so much." "Saith the Apostle so?" quoth _Milly_, and gave me a look which nigh o'erset me. "He saith `the law is not given unto a righteous man,' so how can they be aught but ill folk that be alway a-poking in it? Tell me that, Mistress. If `birds of a feather will flock together,' then a chap that's shaking hands every day wi' th' law mun be an ill un, and no mistake."