“Ah yes, I mind Sir Hector years agone, when he were jest Mr. Hector an’ friend t’ Sir John Dering—him as was the ‘real’ Sir John as lived at ‘the gert house’ yonder an’ married here ... an’ marched away t’ the wars wi’ Mr. Hector, both s’fine in their red coats, and him s’handsome an’ gay ... him as was killed an’ never come marchin’ back.” “Ah!” exclaimed Sir John as she paused. “So you knew Sir John Dering, the Sir John who was killed years ago in Flanders? Pray tell me of him.” “An’ why should I?” quoth the old woman in sudden anger. “He’s been dead long years an’ forgot, I reckon. But when he lived the world was a better place ... ’specially High Dering! Aye, he was ... a man!” “And what,” questioned Sir John wistfully, “what of the new Sir John Dering?” Old Penelope spat contemptuously and trudged on a little faster. “Take care o’ my old trug, young man,” she admonished; “the ’andle be main loose! Aye, me, if my troubles was no ’eavier than that theer trug I’d bear’em j’yful!” “Are you so greatly troubled, then?” he asked gently. “Ah, more’n my share, I reckon! And an old woman so solitary as I be must allus go full o’ sorrow!” “Will you tell me some of your sorrows, old Penelope?” “Why should I?” “Because I ask reverently and respect you.” “Respect! Me?” she muttered. “Respect? O kind Lord, ’tis a strange word in my old ears! Folks mostly curse me ... the children throws stones at me! ’Tis an ill thing to be named a witch ... an’ all because I can see deeper and further than most fules, can read the good an’ evil in faces an’ know a sight about yarbs an’ simples. An’ they’re fruttened o’ me, the fules ... ah, an’ they need be, some on ’em—’specially one!” “You were weeping when I saw you first, Penelope; yet tears do not come easily with you, I judge.” “Tears?” she exclaimed fiercely. “An’ yet I’ve shed s’ many ’tis gert wonder there be any left. ’Tis wonnerful how much one woman can weep in one lifetime, I reckon.” “And why did you weep to-day?” “’Tidn’t no manner o’ business o’ yourn, young man!” she exclaimed bitterly. “Why, then, pray forgive me!” he answered, with a little bow; at this she stared and immediately spoke in changed voice. “I wep’, sir, because this day week I’m to be turned out o’ doors wi’ never a roof to shelter me—unless some o’ the neighbours offers—which they won’t ... Lord, tak’ care o’ the trug, young man, if ye swing it so fierce ’twill go to pieces!” “Why are you being turned out?” “Because they be arl fruttened o’ me—an’ him most of arl——” “Whom do you mean by ‘him’?” But old Penelope tramped on unheeding, only she muttered to herself fiercely. “Do you dread the future so greatly, Penelope?” “No!” she answered sturdily. “I bean’t fruttened o’ now’t but fire ... an’ dogs!” “Dogs?” he questioned.