’twas pa’son hisself was choused out o’ his rightful proputty. ’Twas a powerful bit o’ preachen; every ’ooman there was took wi’ a longen to let the water-drops tummle, but none on ’em durst begin till Mis’ess Addle’s mother set the key. Then ’twas a little Noah’s flood; you mind, souls?—such a fall o’ tears bean’t seed in Winton Simmary since pa’son told us Princess Henrietta were dead in France." "And be Squire Harry a-gwine to gi’ up the trade o’ killen, and bide at home wi’ poor peaceful folks like we as never slays nowt but pigs and other beasts o’ the field?" "Ay, ’tis so. My boy do zay he med ha’ been a knight or lard at a word wi’ Prince Eugene; but bless ’ee, he’ve got his lands to look arter, and we poor folks besides, and like his feyther afore un he have a true heart for home an’ friends. Why, he wouldn’ gi’ up the charge o’ we poor souls, not to be the Lord’s anointed." "Hark ’ee, Gaffer Minshull; bean’t they the bells at last?" "Ay, ’tis so. Pa’son commanded a peal at zeven o’clock by way o’ holy consolation to bride an’ bridegroom. Old Everlasten ha’ took his coat off; ’tis he do call the changes; and i’ feck, the bells ’ll romp through a rare randy afore he’ve done wi’ ’em. Now, sonnies, what d’ye say to wenden out-along an’ callen choir and orchestry together? Then we’ll march up t’ Hall, and sing ’em a lively ditty as ’ll cheer ’em up arter the Christian doens o’ the day. Sackbut, psalteery, an’ all sarts o’ music, says the Book; we cannet muster they holy instruments, to be sure, but wi’ fiddle and bass-viol and serpent, and a little bit o’ tribble an’ bass, we’ll make a shift to raise a goodish randy toon. What d’ye say, sonnies?" "Be jowned if it bean’t a fine notion for such a old aged martal. Ay, let’s out-along and make all the nise we can." "A thimbleful afore ’ee goos, souls. Mugs all, an’ lift up your hearts in a noble cheer for Squire an’ Lady Squire, wishen ’em long life an’ a happy end. All together now; spet it out o’ your wynd-pipes; hurray! hurray! hurray!" *CHAPTER XXVII* *Visitors at Winton Hall* Weather-bound—A Home Circle—Marlborough Unbends—Of Princes—A Certain Harry Rochester One January evening, in the year 1712, a little group was gathered in the turret-room of Winton Hall. The wind was roaring without; snow had been falling steadily all day; but within all was warmth and peace. A big wood fire blazed on the open hearth, lighting up with its ruddy glare as charming a scene as any English country-house could show. It was the children’s hour; little Eustace Berkeley, a sturdy boy of five, stood by his mother’s knee on one side of the hearth, and on the other, Mary, two years younger, nestled in her father’s arms. Squire Berkeley looked up from his copy of the _Courant_. "The duke is dismissed from all his offices, Adèle." "What that mean, Faver?" said the boy instantly.