“Poor girl! And yet she loves him.”
“He’s not good enough man for her,” growled Master Peasegood.
“No man that I know is,” replied Father Brisdone. “But, there, we cannot dislike him for his love for one so sweet and true. Good night, brother; I must be for home. It grows late.”
“I’ll see thee half-way back,” cried Master Peasegood; and after a short walk with his friend he returned to his cottage, and was soon making the bed vibrate with his heavy breathing, which often degenerated into a snore. But he had not been sleeping many minutes before there was a loud pattering at the casement, one that was repeated again and again.
“He gave them hailstones for rain,” muttered Master Peasegood, in his sleep.
Patter, patter, patter again at the casement, when Master Peasegood started up, and the bed gave forth a dismal groan.
Patter, patter, patter at the window once more.
“There’s some one ill,” said the stout clerk, and, rising hastily, while the bedstead emitted a sound like a sigh of relief, he threw on his old gown, went to the window and threw it open.
“Hallo!” he cried.
“Hallo, parson,” came up out of the darkness in a deep growl.