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but it be desperd hard for his veather ta think he'll never zee the vace of his own bwoy na moor, and he the only zon he had left at home, zunce Maester Walter, the young squire be gwon a sodgering. That's my verdit on the matter, and therevore I zay 't."

"But 'a's got a daughter, han't en, living an' like to live? an' I'se war'nt sh'ool come in now with a hick, step, and jump for the whole fortin, that is put case that the old squire do drap and the young one be akill'd in the wars.”

"Ay, dame, when that do happen there 'ool be zum hundred o' good yacres o' land vor zumbody, azide houzen, and beeasts, and ricks o' corn and hay, and gowlden dibs to play duck and mallard wi'. But, Lord! Miss Edith be but a poor pale mommick of a lass, an' if she dwon't zoon graw more brave an' spry, I shoodn' wonder gif she came to lay alongside her brother, Maester Richard, avore ever she war ax'd in church. Zim to I she be but a zickly maid not awver like to be a grawn 'ooman. I had a daughter aince, jist zich another, only a gird'l

stronger, an' she died avore ever she were nineteen."

"Ye mean Meg, dwon't ee, Jan Chervil? I do mind Meg as well as if I zeed her now; Slomaking Meg, as we call'd her, bin her shoes were always slipper-slopper. "Twardn' she as had the pock-fredden vace, war it ?"

"Ees, but it war; there she do lie yonner. Dwon't ee zee thic heap o' graves where the tall thistles do swankum about in the wind? Well, they that be lying there be all Chervils, every one on 'en. There do lie veather, and mother, and granfer, and gramm'er, and poor Meg, and vive o' her brothers and zusters. Lord love 'en all! I do often thenk o' one or t'other on 'en when I do zit in tha zun at our door, atwiddling o' my thumbs."

"Then thee beest a goose-cap for thy pains, Jan. Now I do make a pwint of vorgetting all theazam unket matters, bin I 've enough to do to think o' my oun zel'."

"Ees, but how can I forget'n, when I never stir a step without this here crutch-headed stick in my hon' ?"

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Why, thee cassn't ston' long without it, Jan, I do know that, but what then? It dwon't talk to thee about thy vamily, a b'leeve."

"Ees, but it do tho'. It 'long'd to my gramm'er, an' a'ter she to mother, and she gee it to I on her death bed. I do mind her hanging it on her chair when I war a little bwoy, and she were a teaching me my criss-cross lane, and my girt a, little a, bouncing b. She ha' o'ten rode a cock-horse upon it when she were a youngster, and zo ha' I, and zo ha' every one o' my chillern, an' zo ha' half o' them that now lie cold in yonner graves, an zo how can I feel it in my hon' without thinking of all the hon's that have held it avore me, an' that are now anothing but dust an axen? "Twardn' much for mother to leave me, but I 'oodn't part wi't, no, that 's what I 'oodn't, not for a zummat." The old man grasped it firmly as he spoke, and struck it sharply upon the earth, as if to indicate the inflexibility of his resolution, when he sank into a reverie that lasted two or three minutes, at

the conclusion of which he continued, ""Tain't only the Chervils, veather an' son, and gran'son that this here curtch-headed stick ha' zeen out and out, but all the gennelvolk, and the poor volk, and the kings and queens, and the birds and beeasts in the whole wide wordle have died and gone to the pit-hole two or three times awver zunce this here ashen stick war acut, an' yet it be as strong and as like to last as when it war virst shred from the tree. Theazam be the ways o' nature I do know, but it be a strange story for all that, bain't it, dame ?"

"Fags! Jan, that be a case above my gumption, so I'll neither mell, nor make wi't, vor vear I shood spwile the moril on't; besides I must jog on to borrow a ha'porth o' snuff. But you 'll come ith a'ternoon to see tha poor bwoy laid in the groun', 'on't ye, Jan ?”

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Ay, that's what I 'ool, please the Lord! an zo good bwye to thee, dame, good bwye!" With these words old Chervil, supporting himself upon the stick which had furnished matter for so much of his conversation, quitted the

church-yard, and trudging across a couple of fields, reached the farm house belonging to his son, with whom he had for many years resided.

The youth whose grave he had gone to inspect, was the second son of Jaspar Colyton, a gentleman who had dwelt during the latter part of his life at Bridgwater, generally, however, removing in the summer months to Orchard Place, an old-fashioned house, which stood upon his estate in the immediate vicinity of the village of Weston. From his father, a bold, reckless Cavalier, he had inherited a good constitution, a handsome person, a dissipated improvident disposition, and much of that laxity of principle which passed current among the adherents of Charles for a gay and gentlemanly nonchalance. As these constituted his sole patrimony, and as the Restoration brought him nothing but broken promises, the title of Captain, and the empty memory of his own and his father's services, he had struggled with difficulties and embarrassments of all sorts, never out of spirits, although always in debt, and seldom

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