John Gore felt that he could trust her, and Mrs. Winnie had no less trust in him. She was a shrewd woman, with some knowledge of the world in her own blunt way, and more sentiment and warmth in her than one would have guessed by the masterfulness of her manner. “I shall be very grateful to you,” said, the man, simply. “Why, there, sir, it’s little enough. There sha’n’t be any poking of noses round Furze Farm, I can tell you that. I have a tongue—and a tongue, and my man is a man o’ sense. Order your own goings, sir, and we’ll just mind our business.” She could not have shown her good-sense or her honor better than by taking the matter as she did. But when John Gore spoke of his more tangible debt to her, she stirred the pudding hard, and would have none of his protests. “No, sir, we have got good crops in, three milking-cows, a yard full of pullets, all stuff off our own ground. It’s just our own stuff, and we shall thank you to eat of it, though it be a bit rough, and not puffed up for a gentleman’s table. Charge you sixpence when we kill a chicken, or a penny when I take a bowl of apples down out of the attic? Dear life, sir, not me! My hands aren’t made that way.” Chris Jennifer came in about dinner-time, heralding his approach by kicking his muddy boots against the stone step at the yard door. He came in, and received John Gore and his wife’s orders without so much as a blink of surprise. He stared hard at his guest for half a minute or so, and then took a big jug from a shelf over the fireplace. “I’ll tap t’ new cask,” he said, as though that would be his warmest welcome. “Put some apples t’ sizzle, my dear. Suppose thee’ll be airin’ t’ best sheets.” “Go on with you,” said his wife, bluntly; “do you think I be one to forget such a thing?” Mr. Jennifer lumbered round to her, stood by her solemnly a moment, and then gave her a very deliberate dig under the arm. “T’ woman stole gentleman Adam’s rib; mindings be mendings.” And he went off with a chuckle toward the pantry, leaving John Gore to disentangle the meaning of so solemn a jest. XXXII