Soft Jemmy was standing a yard or two away, watching with open mouth a man who, straddling across a step-ladder, was smearing the ancient sign-board with daubs of black paint, obliterating every trace of the crude heraldic design that had marked the inn’s connection with the lord of the manor. When the board was one unbroken black, the painter descended the ladder with his brush and can, winked at Jemmy, and went into the inn to "mix the flavours", as he said in passing. The half-witted youth contemplated his handiwork for some minutes in mild surprise; then he walked towards old Minshull and addressed him timorously: "Gaffer, I’m afeard my poor yead won’t stand the wonder on’t, but it med do me good to know why John painter ha’ covered that noble pictur wi’ the colour o’ sut." "Why, boy, black’s for sorrow, as ’ee med know wi’out tellen an ’ee weren’t so simple, and ’tis a black day for Winton Simmary, so ’tis." "Why be it more black to-day than ’tis a-Sunday?" asked the youth. "’Tis Tuesday, gaffer, bean’t it? and new pa’son didn’t holler it in church for a holy day." "Boy, your poor yead won’t stand high things, ’tis true, but ’ee know young pa’son be off to Lun’on town to-day, an’ that’s why all the souls be here, to see the last on un." Jemmy looked up again at the defaced sign-board, puzzling his poor brains to find some connection between it and the departure of "young pa’son". "’Tis a shame, gaffer," said Honest John, "to deceive the poor lad, when you know the sign bean’t painted out for no such thing." "Why, there now," returned old Minshull, "bean’t it all one? I axe ’ee that, souls. Young pa’son be a-gwine to Lun’on ’cause his poor feyther’s dead an’ gone; Pa’son Rochester be dead an’ gone ’cause o’ the fight; an I weren’t afeard on un, I’d say the fight were all along o’ Squire; and Mis’ess Joplady ha’ changed the ancient sign of th’ inn ’cause her can’t abear to think on’t. Bean’t that gospel truth, souls all?" The group looked impressed with the old man’s logic. Mistress Joplady, coming for a moment to the door, had overheard his concluding sentences. "’Tis true," she said, wiping away a tear. "I never liked Squire; nobody never did as I ever heerd on; but when pa’son died I couldn’t abear him. One thing I’m thankful for from the bottom o’ my heart, and that is, that my house is college property, like the church, and I can snap my vingers at Squire, and I do." She suited the action to the word. "Has been the Berkeley Arms for a hunnerd years, but ’twill be so no longer. When paint’s dry, up goos the yead o’ Queen Annie, bless her! a poor soul as ha’ lost all her childer, like myself, and the Queen’s Head it’ll be for ever more."