Martin Noble, as we shall hence call our wayfarer, sprung lightly into the churchyard, and approaching the old sexton, thus accosted him:-- “Good morrow to you, Robert: I am glad to hear your voice once more, and to find you so stout and well.” “Kindly spoken,” said the old man, raising his head, and leaning on his spade, “kindly spoken. Robert is my name, sure enough; but what yours may be is more than I know, or can guess even, without you are young Blount that went to the wars. Perhaps, master, you made a bit of guess-work, and never saw me before.” “No, I am not young Blount, but I have seen you as often and knew you as well as he did; and to thy cap, thy jerkin, the keys at thy girdle, and thy grizzled beard, thou art just as I left thee, old Robert. God grant that I may find my own dear father as little altered.” The spade fell from the old man’s hand, and rubbing his eyes as if to clear his vision, at the same time coming closer to his object, he exclaimed,-- “Odd’s life, you cannot be Master Martin that went to foreign parts?” “Yes, but I am,” said Martin, shaking the old man’s hand:--“tell me, Robert, is my father well.” “Oh yes, he’s well,--that’s to say, he don’t ail, as I hear, God bless him!--but as to well,--I can’t call him well, after all, when I think of a kind soul like him without a----” “Heavens! my mother is not dead?” “Oh no; but have not you heard of all the changes here at Cheddar?” “Of what changes do you speak? I have heard nothing. It was only last evening at sunset that I landed at Clevedon Creek in a fishing-boat which came alongside our brigantine as we were running up the Channel to Bristol. I journeyed hither, as you see, on foot, but I shall know all by going home at once.” “Stop, Master Martin, the parson’s house is no home of thine now; an thou ring the bell, a sour face, and a hard word, and a slammed door, would be thy sorry welcome.” “You don’t surely mean that such a man as my father has been taken from his people, and from his own house and home?” “Yes but I do. The good shepherd is gone, and we have a false goatherd in his place,--a wolf in shepherd’s clothing.” “Where then is my father gone? Where shall I find him?” “I can’t rightly tell you myself; but I’ll take you to them that can. It’s somewhere, however, near old Glastonbury Tor; and they tell me that master is as cheery as ever, though, God help him, he fares no better, as this world goes, than I do. Come, I’ll take you to old Mistress Blount: right glad she’ll be to see thee again, and a sad story she’ll have to tell thee about the old gentleman. God’s blessing on his soul!--a was the poor man’s friend.” “What! is dear old Master Blount gone?” “Ay, it’s an awful tale. The mistress will tell you all about it.” So saying, he led the way to a wicket leading out of the churchyard at an opposite corner; but ere they reached it he stopped, observing, that second thoughts were best.