gesture and followed in the wake of Mr. Garnham. Mr. Hogg appeared to be
about to apologise, and then suddenly altering his mind made a hasty and
unceremonious exit, accompanied by the farmer.

Mr. Quince raised his eyebrows and then, after a long and meditative
pinch of snuff, resumed his work. The sun went down and the light faded
slowly; distant voices sounded close on the still evening air, snatches
of hoarse laughter jarred upon his ears. It was clear that the story of
the imprisoned swain was giving pleasure to Little Haven.

He rose at last from his chair and, stretching his long, gaunt frame,
removed his leather apron, and after a wash at the pump went into the
house. Supper was laid, and he gazed with approval on the home-made
sausage rolls, the piece of cold pork, and the cheese which awaited his
onslaught.

"We won't wait for Ned," said Mrs. Quince, as she brought in a jug of ale
and placed it by her husband's elbow.

Mr. Quince nodded and filled his glass.

"You've been giving more advice, I hear," said Mrs. Quince.

Her husband, who was very busy, nodded again.

"It wouldn't make no difference to young Pascoe's chance, anyway," said
Mrs. Quince, thoughtfully.

Mr. Quince continued his labours. "Why?" he inquired, at last.