The next Sunday the people found the churchyard locked up, except during service, when beadles walked there, and desired them not to loiter and disturb the congregation, closing the gates and showing them out like a flock of sheep the moment the service was over. This was fuel to the already boiling blood of Castleborough. The week following, what was their astonishment to find the much frequented, the charming little rustic inn gone. It was actually gone! not a trace of it; but the spot where it had stood for ages, turfed, planted with young spruce trees, and fenced off with post and rail. The exasperated people now launched forth an immensity of fulminations against the churl, Sir Roger; and a certain number of them resolved to come and seat themselves in the street of the hamlet and there dine; but a terrific thunderstorm, which seemed in league with Sir Roger, soon routed them, drenched them through, and on attempting to seek shelter in the cottages, the poor people said they were very sorry, but it was as much as their holdings were worth, and they dare not admit them. Sir Roger had triumphed! It was all over with the old delightful days at Rockville. There was an end of pic-nicing, of fishing, of roving in the islands. One sturdy disciple of Izaak Walton, indeed, dared to fling a line from the banks of Rockville Grove, but Sir Roger himself came upon him, and endeavoured to seize him. The man coolly walked into the middle of the river, and without a word continued his fishing. “Get out there!” exclaimed Sir Roger, “that is still on my property.” The man waded through the river to the other bank, where he knew that the land was rented by a farmer. “Give over!” shouted Sir Roger. “I tell you the water is mine!” “Then,” said the fellow, “bottle it up, and be-hanged to you! Don’t you see it is all running away to Castleborough?” The story was carried by the man to the town, and occasioned a good laugh, and many a time when Sir Roger appeared in the place, he was greeted with—“Why don’t you bottle up the Trent?” But the joke did not compensate for a tittle of what was lost: there was bad blood between Rockville and Castleborough as a settled condition. Castleborough was incensed, and Sir Roger was hairsore.