“And will again,” answered Sir John cheerily, “so down with ye, man; trust me, old Penelope shall suffer no harm.”
“God bless ’ee, sir!” growled Mr. Potter, and immediately vanished, whereupon the hearthstone rose demurely into place and became as innocent-seeming as any in all Sussex; then, setting the elbow-chair upon it, Penelope sat down and spread her thin, work-worn hands to the comfort of the fire.
“An’ now, my dear,” said she, “if there be any tay left, I’d like another cup.” So, while clamour raged without, my lady manipulated the priceless teapot, and Sir John, noting her firm wrist and untroubled demeanour, smiled happily.
And then was a tramp of feet, violent blows upon the door, and Mr. Sturton’s voice more authoritative than usual:
“Penelope Haryott, open the door! ’Tis me, James Sturton! Open the door, d’ye hear me?”
“Aye, I ’ears ye,” cried the old woman, “an’ I spits!”
“Damned hag!—will ye open?”
“Galler’s-bird, no!”
“Then we’ll break it down!”