"Well, suppose I did? A man must make a few pounds to keep himself out of the workhouse. They should pay the saxon better if they didn't want him to. Tchah! What's a few old bones?" There was an interval of smoking, and then the old man resumed his complainings. "Turning ill like that. What did he go and turn ill like that for, just as I wanted him so badly? It's too bad o' doctor. I wouldn't ha' let him go to the old morslem if I'd known he'd turn queer arterward. It's my b'leef that young Tom Candlish gave him an ugly knock that night. But I warn't there. Hi--hi--hi! I warn't there. I didn't want to be mixed up with it." He shifted his seat, and as he did so painfully, his jaw dropped, and he sat fixed and staring at the window, where at one corner there was a curious, rough-looking object, which remained stationary for some time and then moved slowly till first one and then a second eye appeared, gazed into the little cottage interior, and slowly descended again. "Who--who--what's that?" faltered the old man. "Is it--is it--tchah! It's Joe Chegg, peeping and prying again to see if my Dally's here." Recovering from his scare, the old man smoked away viciously for a time, and then grinned hideously. "If I'd only been well," he muttered, "and that doctor had let me have some more of his stuff, I'd ha' took my spade and crope round by the back, and I'd ha' come ahint that iddit and give him such a flop. Sneaking allus after my Dally, as if it was like she'd wed a thing like him." "Why don't doctor come?" he groaned, as a twinge made him twist painfully in his seat. "It's about murder: that's what it is; and they all want to get rid of me now--parson and all; and then things 'll go to ruin about the old church. But they may get a new saxon if they like. Let 'em have Joe Chegg: I don't care. Much good he'll do 'em. Disgrace to the old church: that's what he'll be; and go in o' Sundays smelling of paint and putty, till he most drives Parson Salis mad. Disgrace to the church: that's what he'll be. Eh? eh? Who's that? Who's that? Hallo! Eh? Who's that at the door? You, Dally? Oh, you've come at last!" "Yes, gran'fa, I've come at last," said the girl in a sullen tone. "I might ha' died for all you'd ha' cared," grumbled the old man; "but I wouldn't--nay, I wouldn't do that." Dally made no answer, but plumped herself down on the old shred hearthrug, and put her hands round one knee, so as to stare at the fire. "Well," said the old man after a pause, "ain't you going to speak?" Dally turned and looked at him sharply, with her brow knit and her mouth tightened up; but she only shook her head. "Never been a-nigh me for three days," grumbled Moredock; "after all I've done for you. But don't you make too sure. Young 'uns often goes 'fore old folk, and maybe I'll bury you, and Joe Chegg too, if he don't mind what he's about." Dally paid no heed, but stared at the fire. "Seen doctor?" said Moredock.