“It’s no use to bother,” said Josh, when the state of affairs was being canvassed. “Father says there’s only one cure for it.”
“What’s that?” said Will.
“Time.”
“I think,” said Will, speaking seriously, “that your father, as he’s a clergyman, ought to give old Boil O a good talking to.”
“What!” cried Josh. “Why, he’s been to the cottage nearly every day, trying to get the old man to listen; but it only makes him more wild. Father says that he shall give it up now, and let him come to his senses.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s best,” said Will. “Everybody’s been at him. Old Manners says he got him one evening at the bottom of the garden, but, as soon as he began to speak, old Boil O turned upon him so fiercely that he had to cut away.”
“Oh, yes, of course, I’m going to believe that!” said Josh. “Manners wouldn’t run away from a dozen of him.”
“Well,” cried Will, “he pretty well startled me when I had a try. I’m not going to do it any more, I can tell you.”
“My father’s right,” said Josh. “It only wants time.”
But time went on, and the work-people from the nearest town were hard at work day by day rebuilding and restoring, so that by degrees the traces of the late fire began to disappear, while new woodwork, beams, boards and rafters, bearing ruddy, bright new tiles, gave promise that within another three months the night’s mishap would be a memory of the past.