“Surely, surely,” said Master Peasegood.
“There is a good-sized hole there, friend Peasegood.”
“Yes, I see,” said Master Peasegood, nodding, “though my eyes are not what they were.”
“That place was made by the shell fired from my big howitzer when my poor girl applied the match.”
“Poor child!” said Master Peasegood, sadly, and for some time the two men sat and smoked in silence.
“Shall you ever build up the house again, Master Cobbe?” said the parson at last.
The founder turned upon him almost fiercely, and seemed about to utter some angry word; but he calmed down, took the parson’s fat hand in his, shook it, and released it.
“Nay,” he said, “let it rest; let it rest.”
“I did not want to hurt your feelings, Master Cobbe,” said the parson; “but I thought it would be better for it and for thee. You must be growing richer than before.”
“Yes; and what good is it?” said the founder, bitterly. “Of what use is money to me? I only work and toil to keep my mind at rest. Nay, nay, I cannot build the old place up; let it be. Besides,” he added dryly, “Mother Goodhugh says it is cursed.”