“Clean!” snarled the Aged Soul. “Doan’t ’ee say so, young man, or oi shall ’ate ’ee! No one ’as no call t’ be so clean as oi be ’cept p’r’aps in theer coffins—an’ even then I dunno! Theer was Joel Sams, never kemped ’is ’air in arl ’is days, oi du believe, never shaved—not ’im! Only washed of a Sunday ’cos ’is woife made ’im ... a reg’lar loight-’earted chap were Jo tell ’e took an’ doied. Well, when I come to ’elp ’im intu ’is coffin, they’d washed ’im an’ breshed ’im an’ shaved ’im till oi didn’t roightly know whether ’e were the corp’ or no.... An’ they’d made ’is coffin too small, but in ’e ’ad to go. So oi doubled ’im ’ere, an’ oi twisted ’im theer, an’ got ’e in some’ow—oi knawed pore Joel wouldn’t moind.... An’ talkin’ o’ corpses, wot about your sweet-’eartin’, young man?” “Thank you, it progresses as well as can be expected.” “Ah, but ’ow much do ye expect, young man, that be the p’int. Theer’s folk as generally-arlways expects too much, an’ theer’s folks as doan’t never expect nothin’ no’ow ... loike Diggory Small’s woife as never expected an’ wouldn’t expect ... said ’twas nowt but wind ’er did ... an’ so when the child were born everybody called it ‘Windy Small,’ which were ’ard on the child seein’ as Diggory ’ad ’ad it named ‘Noble’ arter Farmer Axeford’s gurt cow.... An’ talkin’ o’ cows, Pen ’aryott’s witched ’er ol’ cottage into a noo ’un, she ’ave ... arl noo painted an’ thatched so trig as never was, it be. Which ain’t nowise nat’ral—not in Dering it bean’t, wheer no cottages bean’t never painted nowhen. So ’tis witchcraft sure-lye, spells an’ black magic, I rackon—unless it be the doing o’ liddle Mus’ Dobbs.” “And pray, who is he?” inquired Sir John lazily. “Lord!” exclaimed the Aged Soul in deepest scorn, “oi wouldn’t ha’ beleft as nobody nowheers didn’t know ’e. Mus’ Dobbs be a liddle ol’ chap as bean’t a pharysee an’ yet moighty loike a pharysee tu, as works an’ labours whoiles folks sleep.... An’ yonder be that ’ere sweet-eart o’ yourn at last akerchally a-kissin’ ol’ Pen goo’-bye! An’ a rare purty lass ’er be tu! Moves so free an’ easy as a young blood-mare, doan’t ’er? Carries ’er ’ead ’igh an’ proud-loike! A foine wench she be sure-lye.... Nay, boide wheer ye be, young man, oi’ll go to ’er d’rackly-minute an’ say a word for ’ee, aye I will so. ’Tis loike enough oi’ll arg’ ’er into weddin’ of ’ee afore she knows it, so boide wheer ye be an’ leave it arl to oi.” So saying, the Aged One hobbled away, and Sir John, seated beside the stile, watched the little old man salute my lady with hat a-flourish and, bare-headed, offer her his arm.