“Art going to rebuild the old house, now?” said the parson.
“Ay,” said the founder, “and at once. I have my hopes that the sight of the old place, made as near like as can be, even to the trees, may do the poor child good, for she seems at her best when I take her round the garden.”
Gil looked up curiously, for a thought had struck him; but he said nothing; and, on the founder proposing that they should go and see the men digging the foundations out, he walked with them to the old place.
As they walked down to the garden, Gil’s mind ran a good deal upon the thought that had occurred to him, but he said nothing, and waited patiently for his opportunity.
The visit was prolonged till towards evening, when, before returning, the founder walked down the narrow lane by the side of the Pool towards the meadow where Sir Mark had made his first proposal to Mace.
The place was full of memories for Gil, and he sighed as he thought of the bright sweet face he had encountered, and recalled his jealous feelings towards the man who had forced himself into the position of his rival.
But his attention was taken up directly after by the founder, who, with a return of his old business briskness, thrust open the meadow gate, and pointed to the new, sweetly-scented stack of hay just formed.
“What think you of that, Master Peasegood?” he said.
“Truly I am no judge of grass or hay, friend Cobbe, unless it be metaphorically, and for simile’s sake—grown up at noon, cut down at night,”—was the reply. “Ask our gossip, Tom Croftly here.”
“Ay, Tom Croftly is a good judge of grass and stock too, though he is only a founder.”