"Nay, I’ve a fancy that they thowt they mud as weel get th’ burying done wi’ afore th’ Ratcliffes war up to ony o’ their tricks. Leastways that war what Nanny telled me, an’ she war watching th’ body all last neet at Marsh. I’ve been fettling up a bit, an’ pondering a bit, an’ going ower th’ owd days. Eh, Jonas, but we shall see what we war meant to see afore th’ winter comes again." "What—fighting, dost think?" "Ay, we shall that. I’ve getten a tidy-parcel o’ Waynes down here, an’ I can reckon five o’ th’ Marsh lot, let alone t’ others, that fell by Ratcliffe swords an’ Ratcliffe pistols, an’ there’s few knows as I do what a power o’ hate ligs ’twixt Wildwater an’ Marsh. I tell thee, lad, it maks my owd blood warm to think o’ th’ brave times coming back." "I can niver stop wondering at thee, Sexton," said Jonas Feather, settling his arms more easifully on his stick. "Tha’rt a little, snipperty chap, as full o’ dreaminess as a tummit is full o’ waiter; tha’s getten th’ rheumatiz i’ legs an’ shoulder-blades, an’ ivery winter brings thee browntitus, sure as Christmas. Yet here tha stands, an’ I can see thy een fair blaze again when tha talks o’ fighting. Hast iver seen owt o’ th’ sort, or is’t just fancy, like?" The Sexton laughed, a dry and feeble laugh. "I’ve seen part blood-letting, Jonas; an’ ivery neet as I sit i’ th’ settle after th’ day’s moil is owered wi’, I go backard i’ my thowts. Small wonder that I’m gay, like, to think that soon there’ll be a fight to butter my bread at ivery meal-time." "Well, ’tis best for plain chaps like thee an’ me, Sexton, to let ’em settle it among theirselns. Poor folk mun live, I allus did say, an’ if tha addles a bit by burying, I willun’t grudge it thee.—Will th’ burying go forrard peaceable-like, dost think?" "Nay, I couldn’t tell thee. Like as not there’ll be a fight on th’ way fro’ Marsh to th’ kirkyard here.—Now, Jonas, hod th’ stee-top while I clamber up," broke off the Sexton, throwing up his broom and setting one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. "There’s this an’ there’s that to be looked to, an’ it’s gone eleven a’ready." "Sakes, tha doesn’t mean it! An’ here I stand cracking wi’ thee i’stead o’ smartening up th’ sarving-wenches down at th’ Bull yonder.—I’m noan for saying it doan’t breed custom, mind ye, Witherlee, this senseless sort o’ fratching ’twixt th’ gentlefolk. They’ll be coming fro’ far an’ wide to see th’ last o’ th’ owd man, for all th’ moorside war varry friendly to him; an’ ’tis nobbut fitting ’at them as comes to mourn should be warmed a bit i’ th’ innards at after th’ job is done wi’." "Well, there’s part folk hereabouts who care nowt whether they’ve getten warm drink or cold or none at all; an’ that, mind ye, shows a sight more sense nor us poor shammocky chaps above ground hev to show for ourselns," said Witherlee, as he picked up his broom and cast a lingering glance of affection on his "tidy bits o’ graves."