"I'm none so sure of that. But 'tis a longful time since we met. I've been busier than ever this summer. I surprise myself sometimes what I get into twenty-four hours." "I dare say you do." Melinda brought the wayfarer refreshment. They sat in a pleasant kitchen, whose walls were washed a pale ochre, making harmony with various brass and copper articles upon the mantel shelf and dresser. The floor was of stone, and in the alcove of the window some scarlet geraniums throve. They spoke of neighbours, and Mr. Chaffe asked a question. "I hear from Ben Bamsey that his cousin have got two new men at Falcon Farm, and foreigners both." "So they are. One's youngish, t'other's middle-aged; and Joe says they promise to be treasures. He's much pleased about them." "Then they're gluttons for work without a doubt." "So they are seemingly." "How soft that chap do always fall," mused the carpenter. "Because he's got the wit to choose where he will fall," answered Mrs. Honeysett. "Joe Stockman has gifts. He's a master of the soft answer." "Because he knows it pays." "Well, a very good reason." "His cleverness and charity come out of his head, not his heart, Mrs. Honeysett. He's the sort may cast his crumbs on the waters, but never unless he sees the promise of a loaf returning." "You don't like him." "I wouldn't say I didn't like him. As a man of intellects myself I value brains. He's a clever man." "He's spoilt a bit. He gets round one you know. There's a great power in him to say the word to a woman he always knows will please her. I properly like him some days; then other days he drives me frantic." The gruff voice of Mrs. Honeysett's father intruded upon them. It came from a little chamber which opened out of the kitchen and had been converted into his bedroom. His lower limbs were paralysed, but he had a vehicle which he moved by handles, and could thus steer himself about the ground floor of his home. "I hear Arthur Chaffe," rumbled the voice. "I'll see you, Arthur, afore you go, and larn if you've got more sense than when you was here last." A gurgle of laughter followed this remark and the visitor echoed it. "Ah! You bad old blid! No more of your sense, I promise you. We know where your sense comes from!" "Don't you charge too much for my new gate then--sense, or no sense." "Whoever heard tell of me charging too much for anything, Enoch?" "Widow Snow did, when you buried her husband." Again the slow, heavy laughter followed; but Mr. Chaffe did not laugh. He shook his head. "Past praying for," he said. Then he rose and suggested inspecting the old gate and making measurements for the new one. That matter settled and the price determined, Arthur Chaffe returned to the cottage and found that Mr. Withycombe had travelled in upon his little trolley and lifted himself into a large, dog-eared chair beside the hearth.