“No—not he—some one else.”
“The squire?” said the young farmer.
“I mention no names,” said the old man, “mind I didn’t say the squire shuts himself up. Did I, Tom?”
“Not at all,” replied Tom. “Any ale wanted? Keep the pot a bilin.”
“And if you did say the squire shuts himself up,” cried the young farmer, “what then? We all know he shuts himself up, and room after room has been locked up, in Learmont house, till it’s a misery to look at the dirty windows.”
“That may be,” said the old man, “but mind I didn’t say so. Is it snowing still, Tom?”
“I believe ye,” cried Tom, pulling aside a little bit of red baize that hung by the window, as fast as ever. “It is a coming now.”
And so it was, for the large flakes of snow fell against the window with faint blows, and as far as the eye could reach was one uninterrupted field of pure white which lent an unnatural colour to the night.
“I think we may venture to remark,” said a little man who had hitherto sat silent in a corner next the fire-place, “that there won’t be many out to-night that have got a chimney-corner to crawl to.”
“That’s uncommonly true,” replied several in a breath. “Hark!” cried the young farmer, “there’s the clank of Britton’s hammer.”