“Well, all the soot’s in the cooking-pot now, so to speak,” proceeded Tom blandly, “and we’re downright sad about it, we are, for as my missus was saying, you’d make a pretty pair. But, Lord, Master Godfrey, don’t you take it too much to heart, for she’s an upright young lady, she is, and steadfast. Or if she ain’t, there’s plenty of others; also one day follows another, as the saying goes, and the worst of old varmints don’t live for ever. But parson, he beats me, and you his son, so they tell, though I never could think it myself. If he ain’t the meanest ferret I ever clapped eyes on, may the old mare fall down and break my neck. Well, he’ll hear about it, I can promise him, especially if he meets my missus what’s got a tongue in her head, and is a chapel woman into the bargain. Lord! there comes the train. Don’t you fear, we’ll catch her. Hold tight, Master Godfrey, and be ready to jump out. No, no, there ain’t nothing to pay. I’ll stick it on to parson’s fare next time I’ve druve him. Good-bye, Master Godfrey, and God bless you, if only for that there right and left which warmed my heart to see, and mind ye,” he shouted after him, “there’s more young women in the world than ye meets in an afternoon’s walk, and one nail drives another out, as being a smith by trade I knows well.” Godfrey bundled into an empty carriage with his portmanteau and his coat, and covered his face with his hands that he might see no more of that accursed station whence he seemed always to be departing in trouble. So everything had been overheard and seen, and doubtless the story would travel far and wide. Poor Isobel! As a matter of fact it did, but it was not Isobel who suffered, since public sympathy was strong on the side of her and of her lover. The indignation of the neighbourhood concentrated itself upon the squire and the parson, especially the latter. Indeed the village showed its sympathy with the victims and its wrath with the oppressors, by going on strike. Few beaters turned up at Sir John’s next shooting party, and on the following Sunday Mr. Knight preached to empty benches, a vacuum that continued from week to week. The end of it was he became so unpopular and his strained relations with Sir John grew so notorious that the bishop, who like everyone else knew the whole story, gently suggested to him that a change of livings would be to his advantage; also to that of the church in Monk’s Acre and its neighbourhood. So Mr. Knight departed to another parish in a remote part of the diocese which, having been inundated by the sea, was almost devoid of inhabitants, and saw the Abbey and Hawk’s Hall no more.