"It be a bad job, parson." "It is, Moredock, a very bad job; but I'm glad the wretches were scared. I won't believe it was any one from Duke's Hampton." "Nay, it were some of the King's Hampton lot, safe, parson. Ugh! they're a bad set out yunder. I thought it my dooty to come on and tell you, sir, and now I'm going away back." "Let me give you a cup of tea, Moredock," said Mary; "you look tired." "Bless your sweet eyes and heart, miss, and thankye kindly," said Moredock. "Cup o' tea's a great comfort to a lone old man. And thankye kindly for undertaking to take care o' my Dally, as wants it, like most young gels. Why, Miss Mary, I've know'd you since you was quite a little thin slip." "You have, Moredock," said Mary, smiling, as she handed the tea to her brother for the old man, who paid no farther heed to Leo. "I was only fifteen when I first saw you." "Ay, and you was as bright and quick as now you're--Well, never mind that, my dear. Better be an angel as can't walk about than some beautiful gels as can." "Why, Moredock," said Salis, laughing, "was that meant for a compliment?" "I dunno, parson," said the old man, staring hard at Mary; "'tis only what I felt. Heaven bless her! I never see her face wi'out thinking o' stained glass windows, wi' wire outside to keep away the stones; and I says, may no stones never be throwed at her." The old man gulped down his tea, and rose to go. "You'll be on at vestry room, sir?" "Yes, Moredock; and once more I'm glad it's no worse." "Like me to go over in Badley's donkey-cart, sir, to tell the police?" "Well, yes, Moredock. We must give notice about the scoundrels, I suppose, or they may come again." "Mornin', then, sir, and my service to you, Miss Mary, and thankye kindly, my dear," said the old man, hobbling off without a word or look at Leo; and, oddly enough, as he reached the road he wiped a tear from each of his watery eyes. "And so she is," he muttered, "a real angel. My Dally never said, `Have a cup o' tea, gran'fa; you're hot and tired.' Ah! gels is made different, but my Dally's worth two o' that tother one." "Police, eh?" he muttered, as he went on. "I was 'bliged to take it away twissened up into a rag, and if it had been washed somebody would have known. Ah, well, I know what to do wi' that." So the old man went straight home, and fastened the door, before taking the soiled and crumpled surplice from his oak chest; and then carefully picking it to pieces and rolling it up. "My Dally shall wash that, first time she comes, and nobody'll know it's a surplus now. She might ha' asked her old gran'fa to have a cup o' tea." Volume 2, Chapter XVIII. AT CANDLISH HALL. "My Dally" had been otherwise employed, for a messenger had come over from the Hall to see the curate; and at the time her grandfather was departing, Dally was cross-examining the good-tempered, loutish youth respecting his master, and getting out of him all she could glean.