“I be main grieved for this, Pen!” sighed Mr. Potter, crossing to the hearth in his leisured fashion, “but what is to be—must be!” So saying, he thrust an arm up the wide chimney and pulled lustily at some hidden object, whereupon was a creaking sound and my lady shrank back, uttering a gasp of surprise to see the broad hearthstone sink from sight and in its place a yawning cavity. “Quick, Jarge!” warned Penelope, still peering from the lattice. “If they dogs start ill-usin’ of ’ee, Pen, I be a-comin’ up!” quoth Mr. Potter, seating himself upon the floor, his legs a-dangle in the void below. “You, Mus’ Derwent,” he continued appealingly, “you took ’er part once afore——” “And will again,” answered Sir John cheerily, “so down with ye, man; trust me, old Penelope shall suffer no harm.” “God bless ’ee, sir!” growled Mr. Potter, and immediately vanished, whereupon the hearthstone rose demurely into place and became as innocent-seeming as any in all Sussex; then, setting the elbow-chair upon it, Penelope sat down and spread her thin, work-worn hands to the comfort of the fire. “An’ now, my dear,” said she, “if there be any tay left, I’d like another cup.” So, while clamour raged without, my lady manipulated the priceless teapot, and Sir John, noting her firm wrist and untroubled demeanour, smiled happily. And then was a tramp of feet, violent blows upon the door, and Mr. Sturton’s voice more authoritative than usual: “Penelope Haryott, open the door! ’Tis me, James Sturton! Open the door, d’ye hear me?” “Aye, I ’ears ye,” cried the old woman, “an’ I spits!” “Damned hag!—will ye open?” “Galler’s-bird, no!” “Then we’ll break it down!” “Why, then, break away, an’ a bloody end t’ye, James Sturton!” answered old Penelope, sipping her tea with relish. A stick shivered one of the few remaining panes of glass in the lattice, and Mr. Oxham’s voice boomed: “You shall suffer for it, Pen Haryott, when us do come in!” “Bah!” she laughed in fierce derision. “I be used to suffering!” Here the stout door shook to a fierce blow that seemed the signal for others, for there began a furious battering. “Sit still, young man,” cried old Penelope above the din, for Sir John had risen—“sit ye still! ’Tis a strong door an’ should hold ’em till we ha’ finished our tea-drinking, I rackon.” “But,” answered he, as the hammering momentarily subsided, “it seems shameful to permit them to destroy your property——” “My property!” cried she. “Mine? Lord, you must be a gurt fool of a young man!” “Howbeit,” he answered, “we will endeavour to quiet ’em; their noise offends me.” So saying, Sir John drew the bolts and, turning the massive key, flung the door wide and thus came face to face with Mr. Oxham supported by some half-score sturdy fellows who crowded the little front garden and kept back the throng of excited villagers. “Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Oxham, recoiling a step, “so ’tis you again, is it?” Sir John affably admitted the fact. “We want George Potter!”