"Ay, parson, and I will," said the old sexton, following his superior to the door leading out to the churchyard, where Salis stopped and took a box of vestas from his pocket, as he stood just outside the old stone doorway, where a stone corbel with a demoniacal expression of countenance seemed to be leering by his shoulder as if in enjoyment of what had taken place. It was a sheltered corner for lighting a cigar, and the curate, without pausing to think, struck a match, and began to puff out the smoke. "Well, I've no right to speak, as between parson and sax'on, sir; but twix' old man and young man, I do say--what would you ha' said to me if you'd ketched me having a pipe in the churchyard?" "Why, you old rascal, I've often seen you smoking when you've been digging a grave." "Not often, parson; because one never hardly gets a grave to dig. I have had a pipe sometimes when my chesty has felt a bit weak." "I deserve your reproof, Moredock," said the curate, putting out his cigar. "I have taken to smoking so much that I find myself lighting cigars at all times and seasons, and I am greatly to blame here." "Nay, nay, I shan't say no more," said the old man, calmly taking the place of reprover instead of being reproved; "but try a pipe, parson. Worth a dozen cigars. Stop a moment, sir, I wants another word with you." "Yes. What about?" "My gran'child, Dally, parson. I arn't saddersfied there." "Why, Moredock?" "Because I don't think you looks arter her morals as you should. `Send her to me, Moredock,' you says, `and me and the young ladies will take every care on her.'" "I did, Moredock; and we have." "Nay, you haven't, sir; or else she wouldn't go on as she do." "What do you mean, man?" "Along o' young Tom Candlish, squire's brother, sir." "Is this true?" "True, sir? Course it is. Don't I say so? I've ketched 'em together over and over again." "Tut--tut--tut! this must be stopped," cried Salis angrily. "Did you speak to him?" "Ay, I spoke to him." "What did he say?" "Called I an old fool." "But your grandchild. Did you speak to her?" "Ay, course I did; but you might as well talk to yon cobble. She just laughed, and give her pretty head a toss. She is a pretty gal, parson." "Far too pretty, Moredock." "Oh! I don't know 'bout that, sir. Think young Tom wants to marry her? I'll put down a hundred pound the day she's wed." "You will, Moredock? Why, I thought you were very poor." "So I am, parson, so I am; but I've saved up for the gal. But you keep her in more; it'll make him more hungry arter her, and I'd like to see her mistress up at the Hall." "Moredock!" cried the curate, in horrible perplexity. "Well, I should," said the old man, grinning. "Squire's drinking hisself to death as fast as he can, and he won't marry; so young Tom's sure to get the place. But you keep her in."