“May be they would,” composedly returned David. “I have cleared ’em off about six times this fall, and I shall clear ’em again, but not as long as this wind lasts.”
“Is it going to last, David?” inquired the Rector, appearing at his wife’s side, and laughing inwardly at her diplomatic failure.
David nodded his usual salutation as he answered. He would sometimes relax so far as to say “Sir” to Mr. Hastings, an honour paid exclusively to his pastoral capacity. “No, it won’t last, sir. We shall have the warm weather back again.”
“You think so!” exclaimed the Rector in an accent of disappointment. Experience had taught him that David, in regard to the weather, was an oracle.
“I am sure so,” answered David. “The b’rometer’s going fast on to heat, too.”
“Is it?” said Mr. Hastings. “You have often told me you put no faith in the barometer.”
“No more I don’t: unless other signs answer to it,” said David. “The very best b’rometer going, is old father’s rheumatiz. There was a sharp frost last night, sir.”
“I know it,” replied Mr. Hastings. “A few nights of that and the fever will be driven away.”
“We shan’t get a few nights of it,” said David. “And the fever has broken out again.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Hastings. “The fever broken out again?”