along the highway towards Darrington. It was a dark night and a cold one, but not so dark nor so cold that Jack and I could not understand each other.

“ ’Tis a grand thing, Will, lad,” said he, as we rode along the familiar road, “ ’tis a grand thing to be home once more amongst the old faces and places. How goes everything with you, Will? Ben Tuckett⁠—how prospers worthy Ben? Is he in love as deeply as ever with Mistress Lucy?”

“Ben prospers exceedingly, Jack, and is growing sleek and comely. As for love, he is deeper and deeper in it every day.”

“I am glad of that,” he answered. “When once a man hath fallen in love with a maid, he doth well to advance in the sweet passion rather than draw back. But now, Will, hast thou not made some progress in this same art of love since last we met?”

“Enough, Jack, to have come to the conclusion that Mistress Rose Lisle is the fairest creature under God’s sun. Yea, Jack, and I have told her so some scores of times already. So there is another pair of us besides Ben and Lucy. It only needs for thee to find a mate, and then thy father could marry all three pairs at one time.”

“Nay, lad, you had best not wait for me, or you will put off your happiness a long time. Well, thy news is good news, old lad, and I am glad to hear it.”

But I had more news for him than that, and proceeded to tell him of my adventure with Dennis Watson, and of the latter’s threat to do me further injury, together with all particulars of the duel and its consequences.

“It would seem that the old sore has not yet healed,” said Jack. “Certainly you will have to reckon scores with Dennis sooner or later, Will. Be watchful, for he will do you an injury in an underhand fashion if he gets the chance. And hark ye, if you think that he hath a leaning towards Mistress Rose, watch him with both eyes. You will have your work set, for Dennis Watson is an ugly customer at any time, being, I take it, both cruel and ingenious in his contrivances.”

“Let him do his worst,” I answered; “I will account for him in the end.”

By this time we had come to Darrington, and rode quietly up the village street until we came against the vicarage, which is a plain, foursquare house standing at the foot of Church Lane and communicating with the church by a path that leads through the vicarage garden into the graveyard. Now, it being very late, and the whole village in quietness, we did not wish to make any great noise, so we stole round by the lane into the Vicar’s farmyard, across which we went very quietly, fastening our steeds to the stable-door meanwhile. There was a light shining through the latticework of the pantry, so that we judged Mistress Deborah to be awake. In this suspicion we were right, for presently, creeping up to the open latticework, we heard her soundly rating the cat, which in its haste to escape from the pantry had knocked over and spilt a bowl of cream.

“A plague on ye,” said Mistress Deborah, “ye nasty, good-for-nothing varmint, to waste all my cream that was meant for his reverence’s porridge in the morning! How am I to replace that, I would like to know, and not one of the cows yielding a quart a day! Sure there is nothing but worry and disappointment in this world!”

She was now close upon the lattices and, peeping through, we could see her. “She is just the same as ever,” whispered Jack. “Let’s tap the lattice and give her a fright.”

Whereupon he let his fist fall with such weight upon the lattice that Mistress Deborah uttered a scream and seemed likely to let fall her brass candlestick and leave herself in darkness.

“Mercy on us!” said she, “what’s that? More work of the cat’s, I warrant me. An Master John had been home, I should say ’twas him. Ah, poor Master John, indeed! ’Tis a poor trade, fighting, and him his reverence’s only son, too. Well, well, everybody to their likes.”

“Ho, Deborah!” said Jack, in a deep voice, “Deborah!”

Now, Mistress Deborah no sooner heard, her name pronounced than she whipped out of the pantry and flung open the kitchen door, so that in another instant she had seized Jack by the neck and was squeezing the breath out of his body.

“Ah!” quoth she, when she had welcomed him in this fashion. “As if I did not know your voice, Master John! I warrant me you have come up to yon lattice a thousand and one times and said, ‘Ho, Deborah!’ in just those tones. And you are safe and sound and no bones broken! The Lord be thanked! Is the wars over, Master John, and did⁠—”

“Good Deborah,” said Jack, “ask me naught now, but let me to my father. Where is he is he well?”

“Why, well enough but for a little cold in the nose, Master John, got by burying Gaffer Burton’s grandchild t’other day⁠—a wet, slushy day as ever I saw. Oh, why, he’s in his own chamber, Master John, with his books; but you must tread soft, for his reverence is like to be at his devotions.”

“Come with me, Will,” said Jack; and we passed through the kitchen to the room where the Vicar kept his books and composed his sermons and saw such of his parishioners as called upon him. The door was a little way open, and a broad beam of light shone through the opening into the hall. We stole quietly up to this and peeped through. True enough, Parson Drumbleforth was at his devotions, kneeling at a little desk with his great Prayerbook before him, and his white hair shining in the lamplight. And just as we came within hearing he was praying for his

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