while 'e drove, 'ardly lookin' right or left, 'e was that sure of
hisself. An' now 'e's cold as stone--who would a' thort it!"

"Where's Landon?" asked the other man.

"I dunno. He's nowhere about this mornin' that I've seen."

At that moment a figure came into view, turning the corner of a
lane at the end of the scattered thatched cottages called "the
village,"--a portly, consequential-looking figure, which both men
recognised as that of the parson of the parish, and they touched
their caps accordingly. The Reverend William Medwin, M.A., was a
great personage,--and his "cure of souls" extended to three other
villages outlying the one of which Briar Farm was the acknowledged
centre.

"Good-morning!" he said, with affable condescension--"I hear that
Farmer Jocelyn died suddenly last night. Is it true?"

Both men nodded gravely.

"Yes, sir, it's true--more's the pity! It's took us all aback."

"Ay, ay!" and Mr. Medwin nodded blandly--"No doubt-no doubt! But I
suppose the farm will go on just the same?--there will be no lack
of employment?"

The man who was smoking looked doubtful.

"Nobuddy can tell--m'appen the place will be sold--m'appen it