"Farmer Retallack was up and dressed and leaning on a stick in the doorway as I turned into the yard.
"'I've been that worried about ye,' he began, 'I couldn't stay abed. Parson's been up twice from the schoolhouse to make inquiries. Where in the name o' goodness have 'ee been?'
"'That's a long story,' said I, and then, feigning to speak carelessly, though I heard my heart go thump—'How d'ye think Trumpeter looks after the journey?'
"'Oh, he's all right,' the old man replied indifferently; 'but come along in to supper.'
"Now, my dear sir"—the schoolmaster thus concluded his tale, tucking his umbrella tightly under his armpit, and tapping his right forefinger on the palm of his left hand—"these pagans whom I teach are as sensitive as I to ridicule. If I only knew how to take them—if only I could lay my finger on the weak spot—I'd send their whole fabric of silly superstitions tumbling like a house of cards."
This happened last Thursday week. Early this morning I crossed the road as usual with my thermometer, and found a strip of pink calico hanging from the brambles by the mouth of Scarlet's Well. I had seen the pattern before on a gown worn by one of the villager's wives, and knew the rag was a votive offering, hung there because her child, who has been ailing all the winter, is now strong enough to go out into the sunshine. As I bent the bramble carefully aside, before stooping over the water, Lizzie Polkinghorne came up the lane and halted behind me.
"Have 'ee heard the news?" she asked.
"No." I turned round, thermometer in hand.
"Why, Thomasine Slade's goin' to marry the schoolmaster! Their banns 'll be called first time nest Sunday."
We looked at each other, and she broke into a shout of laughter.
Lizzie's laugh is irresistible.