Just as the green puddings came out of the pan, Tom Fenton turned into the lane leading up to his own home, having been engaged in delivering a work-table that he had made for the Vicar's wife. It was a beautiful day at the end of October, very warm for the time of year, and the sun was near its setting. As Tom came to a turn in the lane, he saw a short distance before him, up a bye-road which led past Farmer Lavender's house, a solitary girlish figure, walking slowly, and now and then stopping to gather something from the bank. A slight quickening of his steps, and a turn into the bye-road, soon brought him up with the solitary walker. "Good even, Jenny!" "Good even, Tom!" For some seconds they walked abreast without any further speech. Then Tom said-- "I've just been up to parson's." "Oh, have you?" replied Jenny, a little nervously. "Their Dorcas saith she's heard as Featherstone's back." "Is he so?" said Jenny, in a still more constrained tone. "Didn't like it in France, from what she heard." "Very like not," murmured Jenny. "He's got a place with Mr Chadderton--the young gentleman who was married of late, and who's coming to live at Bentley Hall; so you're like to see a bit of him again." "I don't want to see him," said Jenny suddenly. "I'd as lief he didn't come nigh me." "You was used to like him middling well wasn't you, Jenny?" Before Jenny could answer, the very person of whom they were speaking appeared at a turn of the lane, coming towards them. "Mrs Jenny Lavender, as I live!" said he. "Now, this is luck! I was on my way to the farm--" "With your back to it?" asked Tom. Mr Featherstone ignored both Tom and the question. "Mrs Jenny, since I had the delight of sunning myself in your fair eyes, I have had the high honour of beholding His Most Gracious Majesty King Charles, who was pleased to command me to deliver into your white hands a jewel which His Majesty detached from his own hat. He--" "Me!" exclaimed Jenny, in so astounded a tone as to remind Featherstone that he was beginning his story at the wrong end. "Oh, of course you know not," he said, a little put out, for his speech had been carefully studied, though he had forgotten the peroration, "that His Majesty is Will Jackson. I mean, Will Jackson was His Majesty. At least--" "Are you quite sure you know what you do mean, Mr Featherstone?" demanded Tom. "Sounds as if you'd got a bit mixed up, like. Is it the King you've seen, or is't Will Jackson?" Tom rather suspected that Featherstone was not quite sober. But he was, though between annoyance and self-exaltation he was behaving rather oddly. "Look here!" he said angrily, holding out the diamond clasp. "Was Will Jackson like to give me such as this for Mrs Jenny? I tell you, His Majesty the King gave it me with his own hand."