The Angel became self-conscious for the first time in his life. He drew nearer, trying to maintain an amiable expression on his face, an expression that beat in vain against their granitic stare. His hands were behind him. He smiled pleasantly, looking curiously at the (to him) incomprehensible employment of the smith. But the battery of eyes seemed to angle for his regard. Trying to meet the three pairs at once, the Angel lost his alertness and stumbled over a stone. One of the yokels gave a sarcastic cough, and was immediately covered with confusion at the Angel's enquiring gaze, nudging his companion with his elbow to cover his disorder. None spoke, and the Angel did not speak. So soon as the Angel had passed, one of the three hummed this tune in an aggressive tone. [Illustration: Music] Then all three of them laughed. One tried to sing something and found his throat contained phlegm. The Angel proceeded on his way. "Who's _e_ then?" said the second hobbledehoy. "Ping, ping, ping," went the blacksmith's hammer. "Spose he's one of these here foweners," said the carter from Upmorton. "Däamned silly fool he do look to be sure." "Tas the way with them foweners," said the first hobbledehoy sagely. "Got something very like the 'ump," said the carter from Upmorton. "Dää-ä-ämned if 'E ent." Then the silence healed again, and they resumed their quiet expressionless consideration of the Angel's retreating figure. "Very like the 'ump et is," said the carter after an enormous pause. XXVI. The Angel went on through the village, finding it all wonderful enough. "They begin, and just a little while and then they end," he said to himself in a puzzled voice. "But what are they doing meanwhile?" Once he heard some invisible mouth chant inaudible words to the tune the man at the forge had hummed. "That's the poor creature the Vicar shot with that great gun of his," said Sarah Glue (of 1, Church Cottages) peering over the blind. "He looks Frenchified," said Susan Hopper, peering through the interstices of that convenient veil on curiosity. "He has sweet eyes," said Sarah Glue, who had met them for a moment. The Angel sauntered on. The postman passed him and touched his hat to him; further down was a dog asleep in the sun. He went on and saw Mendham, who nodded distantly and hurried past. (The Curate did not care to be seen talking to an angel in the village, until more was known about him). There came from one of the houses the sound of a child screaming in a passion, that brought a puzzled look to the angelic face. Then the Angel reached the bridge below the last of the houses, and stood leaning over the parapet watching the glittering little cascade from the mill. "They begin, and just a little while, and then they end," said the weir from the mill. The water raced under the bridge, green and dark, and streaked with foam.