And old Mr. Fry (the members of the stranded colony were each strictly Mr. and Mrs. among themselves, unless in the case of a miserable spinster who had missed her mark, like Anne Sole) daringly defined the opinions of his brethren when he protested he would give all ‘them fandangles of shrubberies and grass that were of no good save to the screeching birds of the air as he was not allowed to put a finger on, for his old cabbage bed, where, as everybody knew, he had riz the whitest-hearted cabbages in the parish, not to say for his pig-stye, where, when he could do a double day’s work, and was well-to-do—never thinking what he would come to—as some there could bear him witness, he had fed prime pigs as were a pleasure to look at. So it became another question whether the owner of Copley Grange had altogether fulfilled the intention—always supposing it to have been kindly and not ostentatious or selfish in disguise—of his forerunner, as he was fully persuaded he had done, while he fumed over the thanklessness and discontent of the poor, or whether he had served himself and ridden his hobby to the death, by way of loving his neighbour. When all was done, the Copley Grange Almshouses were only a modern antique, and the Squire had too much taste not to prefer the real antique of Friarton Mill, which was not his property, indeed, but was set down within a stone’s throw of his grounds. As he took care to keep on the best terms with the miller, the Squire flattered himself, it was as safe almost, as though it were in his own hands. He was at liberty to take his guests over it at all hours, in the course of the shortest of strolls, and he had so managed a vista of old thorn trees that the mill formed the loveliest vignette from the grand drawing-room windows.