“It’s a-maazing,” said the old man, slapping his thigh, and bursting into a tremendous series of chuckles. “Oh, parson, you are a one-er, and no mistake.”
The vicar was conscious of two looks as Jessie ran from the room—one of black indignation, directed at Brough; the other a soft, tender glance of thankfulness at himself, ere the poor girl once more ran up into her own room to “have a good cry.”
“Let me see,” said old Bultitude, dryly; “I don’t think theer was owt else as you wanted to tell me, was theer, Master Brough?”
“Not as I knows on, farmer,” said the keeper, looking from one to the other.
“Because, being churchwarden, theer’s a thing or two I want to talk ower wi’ parson—calling a meeting for next week, like.”
“Oh, I can go,” said the keeper, in an offended tone—“I can go if it comes to that;” and then, as no one paid any attention to him, he strode out, his departure being made plain by a loud yelping noise outside, and the voice of one of the labourers being heard to exclaim—
“I shouldn’t ha’ thowt yow’d kick a dog like that, Master Brough.”
While the vicar sat down and told the adventures of the past night.