CHAPTER XVII
THE LAST.
Ten years had passed away, and Peter Palmer had long been laid to rest under the yew tree shade in the village churchyard.
Dorothy Burrow had found a soft place in the heart of a neighbouring farmer, and had taken to herself a second husband, and gone to live near Bath.
The old farm had passed into other hands, and little fair-haired children played under the boughs of the orchard, whence many of the old trees had been cleared and young ones planted in their stead.
The lichen-covered roof of the homestead had been repaired, and the appearance of the place bespoke prosperity and comfort.
It was a May evening in 1780 when heavy footsteps were heard coming slowly up the lane at the side of the farm, and a tall athletic man went to the wicket-gate and leaned upon it with folded arms.
Presently a woman, with a child in her arms, came up to him and said,—
'Good evening. Fine weather, isn't it? There was a sharp shower this morning, and we can almost see the things growing.'
'Who lives here at Bishop's Farm?'