"Gee up for Lady-day!" exclaimed the emancipated coachman; "why, Sall, I
shall touch my whole lump of wages free for the fust time: and I only
wish the gals had our luck."

"Here, Sarah," interposed a kind and ruddy stable youth, "as we're all
making free with Mr. Simon's own special ale, I've thought to bring you
a nogging on't: come, you're not so sick as you can't drink with all the
rest on us--The bailiff, and may none on us never see his face no more!"

These, and similar testimonials to the estimation in which Simon's
character was held, must have gratified not a little the hearer of his
own laudations: now and then, he winced so that Sarah might have heard
him move: but her ear was alive to nothing but the news-bringers, and
her eyes appeared to be fixed upon the linen she was darning. That
Jennings vowed vengeance, and wreaked it afterwards too, on the youths
that so had shown their love, was his solitary pleasure in the
shower-bath. But his critics were too numerous for him to punish all:
they numbered every soul in the house, besides the summoned aiders--only
excepting three: Sarah, who really had a head-ache, and made but little
answers to the numerous glad envoys; Jonathan Floyd, whose charity did
not altogether hate the man, and who really felt alarmed at his absence;
and chiefest, Mrs. Quarles, who evinced more affection for her nephew
than any thought him worthy of exciting--she wrung her hands, wept,
offered rewards, bustled about every where, and kept calling
blubberingly for "Simon--poor dear Simon."

At length, that fearful hue and cry began to subside--the hubbub came
to be quieter: neighbour-folks went home, and inmates went to bed. Sarah
Stack put aside her work, and left the room.