Hiram went to the door and watched Mistress Wayne go through the graveyard wicket; then shook his head soberly. "A man has little left to believe in when he gets to my years," he said, "an’ ghosts an’ sich like is nowt i’ my way; but ’tis gooid for th’ young Maister ’at yond poor soul cleaves like a lapdog to him—they bring luck, there’s no denying it, to them as they tak a fancy to." "They bring luck, an’ they bring healing," said the Sexton’s wife with a glance at her neighbour. "Now, Nanny," cried the farm-man, setting down his mug. "Dost think I’ve getten all th’ morning to waste on thee an’ thy peats? There’s nowt like wenches for hindering wark; an’ time’s like milk—tha cannot pick it up again when ’tis spilled." "Well, tha canst win forrard," said the Sexton’s wife. "There’s nobody hindering thee, is there?" While Hiram settled to the work of unloading the peats and storing them in the roomy cellar that underlay Nanny’s cottage, Mistress Wayne was wandering up and down the churchyard in search of Sexton Witherlee. The Sexton came out of his tool-house presently, and his eyes were exceedingly friendly as they fell on the little figure moving through the snowflakes. "What, Mistress!" he cried. "Ye’re noan flaired o’ wind an’ weather, seemingly." "Good-morrow, Sexton. I’ve brought thee the first of the primroses," said Mistress Wayne, drawing a tiny bunch of half-opened buds from under her cloak. "Now, that’s varry kindly o’ ye, Mistress, varry kindly," murmured Witherlee, laying the flowers in his open palm. "By th’ Heart, but ’tis a queer world these little chaps hes oppened on to; thowt it war spring, they did, wi’ winds as soft as butter—an’ then, just as they’ve getten nicely unwrapped, like, th’ winter is dahn on ’em again wi’ a snarl. Ay, ay, th winter is allus carred behind some corner, like a cat wi’ a mouse, ready to pounce on sich frail things as these." He glanced from the primroses to Mistress Wayne, as if she and they came under the one head of frailty. "They were better gathered, Sexton; I found them in a sheltered nook of the Marsh garden—but oh, ’twas cold even there—they were better gathered, were they not?" "To be sure, to be sure. We’re all better gathered nor standing on our stems, as these quiet bodies under sod could tell ye if they’d getten tongues.—Theer, Mistress! Ye’re shaking like a reed. Come ye wi’ me under th’ Parsonage yonder, if ye mun bide a bit; ’tis out o’ th’ wind." "Oh, yes, ’tis warmer here—much warmer," she said, seating herself on a flat tombstone that stood against the wall and making a pretty motion to the Sexton that he should sit beside her. The snow fell sparsely out of the blue, and the sun was bright; but overhead the peewits wheeled in narrowing circles, and prophecy of storm was in their cries.