“That’ll du—that’ll du!” croaked the ancient man angrily. “’Tidn’t my fault! Don’t ’ee go a-blamin’ of oi—blame me granddarter Ann! Her du be for ever a-washin’ an’ a-breshin’ an’ a-cleanin’ o’ me, till it be gert wonder ’er don’t scrub me into me grave! Combed all th’ ’air off’n me ’ead, she ’ave, an’ now combin’ out arl me whiskers—what be left of ’em! ’Tidn’t respectful—no! ’Ef ’ee du get dirty,’ ’er sez tu me, ‘no baccy!’ ’er sez—a crool ’ard creeter be me granddarter Ann! Look at me boots, so bright an’ shinin’—I dassent go a-nigh a bit o’ mud! An’ I loike mud—leastways a bit o’ mud don’t nowise ’arm nobody, an’ when it be forbid I could waller in it, j’yful—ah, an’ I will one o’ these days an’ dang arl! A crool, flinty-’earted, brimstone witch be my granddart——” “Granfer!” called a soft voice at no great distance. “Granfer!” “By goles!” ejaculated the ancient; and skipping down from the stile with surprising agility, he was in the act of brushing imaginary dust from his immaculate smock-frock when round a bend in the lane there appeared a shapely young woman who, coming thus unexpectedly upon Sir John, blushed very prettily and dropped him a curtsy, then turned to glance at one standing immediately behind her, a tall, square-shouldered, powerful-looking fellow who, meeting Sir John’s quick, bright glance, flushed also, from square chin to the curls of very neat wig that showed beneath neat hat, and, flushing, bowed, though remarkably stiff in the back about it. “Come, Granfer,” said the girl, “it be toime ye took your egg-an’-milk!” “Cruel and flinty-hearted?” murmured Sir John reproachfully. “O Mr. Dumbrell!” “Hesh-hesh!” whispered the ancient fiercely. “Are ye catchin’ cold, Granfer deary?” “Brimstone witch? O Mr. Dumbrell!” “Who be the man ahint ye, Nan?” demanded the old man, pointing with his stick. “Only the gentleman as took my part’s marnin’ agin Mr. Sturton, Granfer.” “Sturton!” snarled the ancient, flourishing stick in tremulous hand. “Sturton—dang ’im! Ef I ketch ’im tryin’ t’ kiss ’ee, lass, I’ll break ’is ’ead for ’im so old as I be—aye, I will, an’ ’e can turn us out o’ th’ ow’d cottage arter if ’e loikes—dang ’im! Doan’t ’ee forget pore Mary Beal as drownded ’erself las’ year arl along o’ Sturton——” “There, there, Granfer, you be gettin’ arl of a shake! That’ll du now, that’ll du or—no puddin’ fur your supper, mind that.” “Arl right, lass, arl right! Only when I du think o’ that Sturton——” “Then don’t ’ee, Granfer, or not a scrinch o’ sugar or nutmeg in y’r egg-an’-milk an’ nary a spot o’ rum. So be a good lad an’ come ’long o’ me!” “Well, Robert,” quoth Sir John, seating himself on the stile again so soon as they were alone, “my letter reached you in time, then?” “And I’m here in conse-quence, sir!” “What is all this about Sturton?” Ex-Corporal Robert shifted his right foot slightly, and raising stiff arm, coughed deprecatingly behind a discreet hand.