Here my lord’s attention was attracted towards a group of villagers approaching. They were led by a short well-set-up fellow with a humorous cast of face; his thumbs were stuck into his arm-pits, and as he walked he was singing to the accompaniment of a flute played by the man at his side. The old man looked towards him and smiled affectionately. "’Tis my boy a-comen," he said. "Was born in ’59, your honour, the year afore Charles Two coom back; and I chrisomed un Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless out of Nehemiah nine; a good boy, though wilful." The boy of forty-three was singing lustily: "’Twas on a jolly summer’s morn, the twenty-first of May, Giles Scroggins took his turmut-hoe, and with it trudged away. For some delights in hay-makin’, and some they fancies mowin’, But of all the trades as I likes best, give I the turmut hoein’. For the fly, the fly, the fly is on the turmut; And ’tis all my eye for we to try, to keep fly off the turmut." "Mum, boy, mum!" said his father. "The boy has a sweet breast, your honour," he added, turning to Godolphin, "and ’tis my belief ’twill lead un into bad company in the days o’ his youth. He _will_ sing ’Sir Simon the King’ and ’Bobbing Joan’, and other sinful ditties. Ah! I had a good breast in my time; and you should ha’ yeard Noll’s men sing as we marched into Preston fight; I could sing counter to any man.—Boy, doff your hat to the Queen’s purse-bearer.—Ay, ’twas psa’ms an’ hymns an’ speritual songs in my time, as the Book says." "Sarvant, yer honour," said the new-comer, bobbing to Godolphin. "Feyther been taken away my good name? ’Tis a wise feyther knows his own child; feyther o’ mine forgot that when he named me Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless. Beant the fault o’ my name I ha’n’t took to bad courses. But there, he’s a old ancient man, nigh ready for churchyard—bean’t ’ee, dad?" "Not till I make a man on ’ee, boy." "May I present my friend Sir Gilbert Young, sir?" said Frank Godolphin, coming up at this moment through the gathering crowd. My lord bowed and swept off his hat in the courtly fashion of the day, in response to a still lower salutation from the young Cambridge man. "I am honoured, my lord," said Sir Gilbert. "My lard, i’ fecks!" ejaculated Sherebiah’s father, with a startled look. "My lard,—an’ I ha’n’t even pulled my forelock! Boy, doff your cap to my lard! And the Book says, ’They shall stand afore princes’, and I’m a-sitten!" The old fellow began to struggle to his feet with the aid of his staff, but Godolphin laid his hand on his arm, and pressed him down. "Sit fast, gaffer," he said. "See, the players are coming out again. I am pleased to have met one of Noll’s veterans so hale and hearty, and I hope your son will turn out as great a comfort to you as mine."