"I'll tell you one who did, farmer," said the hostess, laughing merrily; "and that's the lady of Pendar'l. God forbid I should ever say of Trevethlan! And d'ye mind what I said, Master Colan? Didn't I foretell what would happen if ever Squire Randolph and Miss Mildred came together? And you see they're wooed and married and all."
"There's not much good like to come of it for Trevethlan," observed the farmer. "They say the mother's as cold as stone."
"Mayhap some folks wouldn't care if she were," said Germoe the tailor, who had come up during the last few words.
"Oh, neighbours," cried the light-hearted hostess, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her white apron, "take my word, it'll all come right in the end. It's natural to fret and fume a little, but it all blows over. The squire'll bring home his bride by furry-time, I warrant."
"'Twill be time he did," quoth Germoe; "for the castle's getting awful lonesome and dismal. How Mr. Griffith and his dame can bide there, is more than I can tell; and, as for old Jeffrey, he's as dumb as any of the ghosts they say walk there."
"Tales to quiet babes, friend Germoe," said Mrs. Miniver. "Old Jeffrey'll run up our flag again before the oak's in leaf."
"You were always so comfortable, dame," remarked Colan. "But how'll they get over the trial at Bodmin yonder? There's an uncommon mystery about that marriage, Mistress Miniver."
"Tell you what, farmer," quoth the hostess more gravely, "I care a deal more for our poor folks that are in the jail at Bodmin. Do you know, they say it's a hanging matter?"
"And our Mercy's sweetheart among them, dame," said Germoe.
"If our Mercy's sweetheart is there," Mrs. Miniver said, "it is to bring them to ruin. And I heard he did come down here a little ago. It's young Sinson, I mean, Master Germoe."