“Owning so much land, he consequently owes a duty to the county and to his tenants—a debt he hath never paid and never will, being a poor fool, sir, a miserable wretch who takes and gives nothing, who passes his life in riot and debauchery shut up in Paris salons when he might be walking these hills a free man, honoured by his tenantry.... Are you staying long hereabouts?” “Yes, sir,” answered Sir John. “And my name is Derwent.” “Then, Mr. Derwent, should you find yourself Alfriston way, come and see us. My daughter shall brew you a dish of such tea as you seldom drank before and that never passed the excise ... and I’ve some French brandy——We will smoke a friendly pipe and talk, sir, for to talk is to be alive!” So saying, the painter got lightly to his feet and stood a moment to survey the widespread prospect. “Look around you!” quoth he. “In the brooding silence of these immemorial hills the long-forgotten dead may find voices to speak of vanished peoples whiles here we stand, you and I, alive for a little space, yet soon to pass and vanish, as they. How glorious, then, whiles we have life, to worship the Infinite God within and around us, here amid these fragrant solitudes ... and to poach an occasional rabbit!” saying which, the painter laughed, shouldered his musket and strode off, leaving Sir John to pursue his solitary and pensive way, filled with a strange new sense of responsibility, until, having descended the Beacon, he reached a stile and, seated thereon, fell to profound meditation. Across undulating park, shaded by ancient trees, rose the stately pile of Dering Manor, his home; in the valley hard by, sheltered beneath lofty Firle, nestled Dering village; all around him, far as eye could see, the land was his: thus, as he surveyed this goodly heritage, his sense of responsibility grew, a feeling unknown until now. From these reflections he was suddenly aroused by feeling a sharp prod in the back, and, glancing sharply around, beheld an old man who peered up at him from under a well-brushed, wide-eaved hat and poked at him with a knotted stick; a small, wrinkled, rosy-cheeked, exquisitely neat old man in spotless frock and highly polished boots, and who now addressed him in querulous tones, though his bright eyes held a lurking twinkle. “Lord, young master, lordy-lord!” he quavered; “there ’ee du set s’ quiet an’ still as Peter Bunkle’s ’og as was killed day afore yesterday ’s ever was, that ’ee du!” “I was thinking,” answered Sir John, almost apologetically. “Well, I be thinkin’ tu ... I be thinkin’ ’tis toime ’ee comed off’n stile an’ mak’ way fur a old, ancient man as wur a-buryin’ folk older’n ’ee afore ’ee was born, I reckon.” Down got Sir John forthwith and, seeing the old man so feeble, reached out a hand in aid, whereupon the ancient man swore at him, though a little breathlessly by reason of his exertions as he climbed.