“It’s Nicodemus. He may pass on. Good day, granfer.”
Nicodemus halted, surveying the pair whimsically.
“Good day, miss. Good day, doctor. A rare starm be comin’ up. I feel ’un in my old boans.”
“You mustn’t get wet, Master Burble,” said the artful Cicely.
“Ah-h-h! I bain’t in no sart o’ hurry to invite meself, as the sayin’ is, to my own funeral. I be come from drinkin’ Johnny Exton’s health—a very notable set-to.”
Cicely still hoping that the garrulous old man would move on, said briskly:
“Yes; we heard some cheering up at the Hall.”
“Did ’ee now? Johnny be a valiant soul, but a sad Raddicle. I hope, miss, that her ladyship won’t mix me up wi’ him and Aggie Farleigh. I don’t hold wi’ such flustratious talk.”
“My mother knows that.”
Nicodemus uplifted his voice, thinking, possibly, that his wise words might penetrate the open windows in the Farleigh cottage: