“O Sussex!” she murmured. And then: “They are worth caring for, these unspoiled folk o’ the Down Country.” “They are, Herminia!” he answered. At this she turned and looked at him, frowning a little. “Have you done so, Sir John?” she questioned. “Have you cared for their comfort and welfare?” “Alas, no!” he answered. “I, like you, my lady, have preferred the town hitherto, and, heaven help me, was therewith fairly content! Which is matter for some wonder, for here were the Downs and here the Dumbrell——” “That Aged Soul!” she added, smiling suddenly. “As gallant as any town beau, more dignified, and infinitely more sincere.” “Rose child, I perceive thou hast also found eyes to see withal!” “Is this so amazing, your honour?” “Not so much as to behold a fine lady who honours Rusticity and finds joy in simple, homely things.” “Indeed, sir, I do love the country, especially Sussex, for, as your honour may ha’ forgot, I was born here.” “Then, if you will, I can show you other wonders. First, there is Dame Penelope Haryott, whom fools call a witch and rogues have sought to murder, ere now.” “Murder!” exclaimed my lady, wrinkling her brow. “Oh! And yet surely witches be horrid creatures! Ha’n’t you read of ’em?... Leagued with all manner of evil spirits for the working of evil.... Ha’n’t you read what learned philosophers ha’ writ concerning’ em, sir?” “Aye, I have.” “Well, if this woman be truly a witch——” “But was there truly ever a witch, child?” “Your honour may have heard of the Witch of Endor?” “Hum!” quoth Sir John. “Can it be that you believe in witchcraft, black magic and the like fooleries?” “Don’t you, sir?” “No more than I do in ghosts, child.” “The girl Ann tells me that ghosts often walk in these parts.” “Aye, so they do,” laughed Sir John, “and to some purpose.” “Then, despite the Bible and philosophers, your superior wisdom doth not believe in witches?” “No, indeed.” “Nor ghosts?” “No, child.” “Because you chance never to ha’ seen one, sir!” “Because I have, rather. Indeed, Rose, a most effective ghost——” “You have positively seen a ghost? When? Where?” she demanded. But, turning a bend in the road they came upon a horseman, a cadaverous person in threadbare clerical garb, who bestrode a very plump steed. “A fair prospect to the eye!” he exclaimed, nodding gloomily towards Dering village, where it nestled under the sheltering Down. “Aye, a fair prospect, and yet, in very truth, a ‘whited sepulchre’ ... not a thatch that doesn’t leak, scarce a cottage that is truly habitable——” “Shameful!” exclaimed my lady. “And wicked!” added the parson in his gentle voice, his haggard face very woeful. “For how shall folk take heed to their soul’s welfare until their bodies be comfortable? Alas, you behold yonder the evils of a bad landlord. Sir John Dering hath much to answer for. Better he were dead and the land in better keeping.” “Dead, sir!” exclaimed my lady, aghast.