“Ay!” said Guy. “So I’ve heard. Won’t you sit down, and tell me about it?”
“Nay, I’ll stand. But sit ye down, sir; ye look but poorly. Ay? Ye’ll maybe have had a warstle wi’ him yersell. Eh—ay? John saw him, here on t’ brig. He held to it—at his death, and said ’twas a warning. Eh dear—he never took it!”
“Did you ever see him yourself?” asked Guy.
“Nay—I never saw un; the Lord’s left un no room. Eh, sir, have ye got religion?”
“Not quite,” said Guy.
“Eh, sir, ye mun get it; ye’re the sort to need it.”
“I do,” said Guy; “that’s so.”
“Sithee,” said the old woman, resting the basket she carried on the wall, and dropping the tone of honest pride with which she had spoken of her family’s share in the Waynflete ghost, for a coaxing whisper, “sithee, Mr Waynflete. There’s my lad; he’s a bit soft is Jemmy; but he can do a job of work; he can use a besom wi’ the best, and he’ve fettled up t’ kirk for t’ oud sexton, and pu’d t’ bell and fetched t’ watter for t’ christenings, these twenty year. But this ’ere vicar he’s a stranger. Now, Mr Waynflete, canna’ ye speak a word for my lad, t’ last Outhwaite as Waynflete’ll ever see. T’ vicar, he knows nought o’ Waynflete, and ’twas from the Glory Hallelujah men I got salvation. But ’tis all the same, sithee, t’ kirk’s never opened without my Jem, and I doubt na the Lord speaks to his saul. Eh, here a be; I’ve been a looking for him. He’s feared to cross t’ brig by ’issell. There’s no telling, there’s no telling, sir, what t’ ow’d Guy may have done to him.”
Jem, still with the weird boyishness that often clings to those of imperfect intellect, came shambling down the path from the Dragon.
“T’ pony’s shod,” he said, in a high, cracked voice, as he came in sight.