If, under the circumstances, any thing could be added to Simon’s gratification, such pleasing addition was afforded in overhearing, as Lord Brougham did, the effect which his rumoured death produced on the minds of those who best had known him.  It so happened, Sarah was sick, and did not join the universal hunt; accordingly, being the only audience, divers ambassadors came to tell her constantly the same most welcome news, that Jennings had not yet been found.

“Lawk, Sally,” said a helper, “what a blessing it’ll be, if that mean old thief’s dead; I’ll go to town, if ’tis so, get a dozen Guy’s-day rockets, tie ’em round with crape, and spin ’em over the larches:  that’ll be funeral fun won’t it? and it’ll sarve to tell the neighbours of our luck in getting rid on him.”

“I doan’t like your thought, Tom,” said another staider youth:  “it’s ill-mirth playing leap-frog over tomb-stones, and poor bravery insulting the dead.  Besides, I’m thinking the bad man that’s taken from us an’t a going up’ards, so it’s no use lending him a light.  I wish we may all lie in a cooler grave than he does, and not have to go quite so deep down’ard.”

“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.