“So you be going in earnest, ma’am,” he said, looking down at Mrs Dale’s feet.

As Mrs Dale did not answer him at once, Lily spoke:  “Yes, Hopkins, we are going in a very few days, now.  We shall see you sometimes, I hope, over at Guestwick.”

“Humph!” said Hopkins.  “So you be really going!  I didn’t think it’d ever come to that, miss; I didn’t indeed,—­and no more it oughtn’t; but of course it isn’t for me to speak.”

“People must change their residence sometimes, you know,” said Mrs Dale, using the same argument by which Eames had endeavoured to excuse his departure to Mrs Roper.

“Well, ma’am; it ain’t for me to say anything.  But this I will say, I’ve lived here about t’ squire’s place, man and boy, jist all my life, seeing I was born here, as you knows, Mrs Dale; and of all the bad things I ever see come about the place, this is a sight the worst.”

“Oh, Hopkins!”

“The worst of all, ma’am; the worst of all!  It’ll just kill t’ squire!  There’s ne’ery doubt in the world about that.  It’ll be the very death of t’ old man.”

“That’s nonsense, Hopkins,” said Lily.

“Very well, miss.  I don’t say but what it is nonsense; only you’ll see.  There’s Mr Bernard,—­he’s gone away; and by all accounts he never did care very much for the place.  They say all he’s a-going to the Hingies.  And Miss Bell is going to be married,—­which is all proper, in course; why shouldn’t she?  And why shouldn’t you, too, Miss Lily?”

“Perhaps I shall, some day, Hopkins.”

“There’s no day like the present, Miss Lily.  And I do say this, that the man as pitched into him would be the man for my money.”  This, which Hopkins spoke in the excitement of the moment, was perfectly unintelligible to Lily, and Mrs Dale, who shuddered as she heard him, said not a word to call for any explanation.  “But,” continued Hopkins, “that’s all as it may be, Miss Lily, and you be in the hands of Providence,—­as is others.”

“Exactly so, Hopkins.”

“But why should your mamma be all for going away?  She ain’t going to marry no one.  Here’s the house, and there’s she, and there’s t’ squire; and why should she be for going away?  So much going away all at once can’t be for any good.  It’s just a breaking up of everything, as though nothing wasn’t good enough for nobody.  I never went away, and I can’t abide it.”

“Well, Hopkins; it’s settled now,” said Mrs Dale, “and I’m afraid it can’t be unsettled.”

“Settled;—­well.  Tell me this:  do you expect, Mrs Dale, that he’s to live there all alone by hisself without any one to say a cross word to,—­unless it be me or Dingles; for Jolliffe’s worse than nobody, he’s so mortial cross hisself.  Of course he can’t stand it.  If you goes away, Mrs Dale, Mister Bernard, he’ll be squire in less than twelve months.  He’ll come back from the Hingies, then, I suppose?”

“I don’t think my brother-in-law will take it in that way, Hopkins.”