“Parson,” said the founder hoarsely, as he laid his hand on the other’s sleeve; “they are right; I once heard them too.”
“What?” said Master Peasegood, laughing, “the owls?”
“Nay, I should know the cry of an owl, man. It is not that. Time after time I’ve stood there in the forest, and heard the wild cry just at dark when everything is still.”
“Nay, nay,” said Master Peasegood, “the dead don’t cry for help, neither do the angels in heaven; and if there’s truth in all we believe, man, our little Mace’s looking down upon us, an angel among God’s best and dearest ones.”
The old man’s head went down upon his hand at this, and he sat in silence for some time, while, with his eyes misty and dim, Master Peasegood leaned back in his chair, and smoked with all his might.
The silence was broken by the founder holding out his hand to his visitor, and shaking it warmly.
“Thankye, parson, thankye,” he said. “What you say ought to be true; and I hope she forgives me for my vanity and pride.”
“Poor child! It was a mistake, Master Cobbe, but let it rest. They say our gay spark, Sir Mark, is going to comfort himself by wedding Mistress Anne.”
“Ay? Indeed?” said the founder. “I did hear something of the kind, but I paid little heed.”
“I hear it as a fact, Master Cobbe.”