No catastrophe occurred that evening therefore, and as the days passed Mrs Sweetapple seemed gradually to accustom herself to her surroundings; towards the end of the week, indeed, she became as silent during the evening hours as since her arrival at Branston she had proved herself throughout the day. When Sunday came, however, all was different. She went to church in the morning, and behaved as well as even her daughter could wish; she seemed pleased and interested, and as much excited as a child. She had not been to church for many years, and all was new to her. The unwonted exertion tired her, and she was even more quiet than usual all that afternoon, dozing in her chair for the most part. Towards evening, however, she woke up with a start. “What’s gone wi’ the settle?” she cried. “Wherever be the settle? Bartlett ’ull be here in a minute an’ he’ll not ha’ nowheres to sit.” The children began to giggle, and even John could not repress a smile. Before the perplexed Phoebe had time to formulate any soothing rejoinder, Lizzie started from her chair. “I’m fair dathered among ye,” she cried out. “Where be the settle, I say? The settle what my father did make wi’ his own hands and what poor Bartlett did always sit on. I’ll not be robbed on’t.” “Robbed! Dear, to be sure, sich a notion! Who’d ever go for to steal such a thing. We did leave it in the wood, don’t ye mind? ’Tisn’t worth shiftin’—there, I’d ha’ thought ye’d ha’ forgot about it by now.” “Nay, I’ve not forgot—an’ Bartlett, he’ve not forgot, I’ll go warrant. He’ll be that vexed when he do come. There, Phoebe, I never thought you’d go for to play I sich a trick. You did promise I sure as anything, I should have it by the week-end, and here be Sunday, an’ Bartlett ’ull be comin’, an’ he’ll not find it ready.” “Well, ye shall have it to-morrow, we’ll send for it sartin sure to-morrow. Ha’ done, childern (in a fierce aside to the youngsters), I’ll not ha’ ye makin’ a mock o’ your grammer. Stop that, or I’ll gie ye summat as ’ull make ye laugh wrong way round. There, mother, ye’d best come upstairs and get to bed. ’Twill make to-morrow come all the sooner. An’ I’ll see en fetch the settle by then.” “But Bartlett ’ull be comin’,” murmured poor Lizzie, who was shaken with the pitiful dry sobs of the old. “He’ll come an’ he’ll not find I here, an’ he’ll not find settle here.” “Nay now, mother, nay now. He’ll not come—he could never find his way to our place. These houses warn’t built in Bartlett’s time. Why so like as not,” she continued soothingly, struck by a sudden inspiration, “as like as not he’s waitin’ for ye down in the wood—at the wold place, ye know. Don’t ye think so, John?” “Ees,” said John, controlling his features, “’Tis better nor likely he’m waitin’ there.” “Bidin’ there all alone,” sighed Lizzie. “The house be empty now, and everything be changed. But the settle’s there.”