"Simon," commanded the Ancient, "hold thy tongue, lad; I says again, if Peter's been an' rose Prue's 'opes only to dash 'em 't will be a bad day for Prue, you mark my words; Prue's a lass as don't love easy, an' don't forget easy."
"Why, true, Gaffer, true, God bless 'er!"
"She be one as 'ud pine—slow an' quiet, like a flower in the woods, or a leaf in autumn—ah! fade, she would, fade an' fade!"
"Well, she bean't a-goin' to do no fadin', please the Lord!"
"Not if me an' Peter an' you can 'elp it, Simon, my bye—but we 'm but poor worms, arter all, as the Bible says; an' if Peter 'as been an' rose 'er 'opes o' freein' Jarge, an' don't free Jarge—if Jarge should 'ave to go a convic' to Austrayley, or—or t' other place, why then—she'll fade, fade as ever was, an' be laid in the churchyard afore 'er poor old grandfeyther!"
"Lord, Old Un!" exclaimed Simon, "who's a-talkin' o' fadin's an' churchyards? I don't like it—let's talk o' summ'at else."
"Simon," said the Ancient, shaking his head reprovingly, "ye be a good bye—ah! a steady, dootiful lad ye be, I don't deny it; but the Lord aren't give you no imagination, which, arter all, you should be main thankful for; a imagination's a troublesome thing—aren't it, Peter?"
"It is," said I, "a damnable thing!"
"Ay—many's the man as 'as been ruinated by 'is imagination—theer was one, Nicodemus Blyte were 'is name—"
"And a very miserable cove 'e sounds, too!" added Simon.