because its comin’ into this wurrld killed its mother.  That was an unnat’ral thing, Josey,’ sez he—­’There was no God in it, only a devil!’ and ’is lips trembled more’n ever—­’no woman ought to die in givin’ birth to a child—­it’s jes’ wicked an’ cruel!  I would say that to God Himself, if I knew Him!’ An’ he clenched ’is fist ‘ard, an’ then ’e went on—­ ’But though I wanted to kill the little creature, I couldn’t do it, Josey, I couldn’t!  It’s eyes were like those of my Dearest.  So I let it live; an’ I’ll do my best by it, Josey,’—­yes, them’s the words ‘e said—­’I’ll do my best by it!’”

Here Josey broke off in his narrative, and resumed his crawling pace.

“You ain’t finished, ’ave ye, Josey?” said Roger Buggins propitiatingly, drawing closer to the old man.  “It’s powerful interestin’, all this ’ere!”

Josey halted again.

“Powerful interestin’?  O’ course it is!  There ain’t nobody’s story wot ain’t interestin’, if ye onny knows it.  An’ it’s all six-an’- twenty year agone now; but I can see th’ owld Squire still, an’ the nurse walkin’ slow up an’ down by the border of the field, hushin’ the baby to sleep.  And ‘twas a good sound baby, too, an’ thrived fine; an’ ’fore we knew where we was, instid of a baby there was a little gel runnin’ wild all over the place, climbin’ trees, swannin’ up hay-stacks an’ up to all sorts of mischief—­Lord, Lord!” And Josey began to chuckle with a kind of inward merriment; “I’ll never forget the day that child sat down on a wopses’ nest an’ got all ’er little legs stung;—­she was about five ‘ear old then, an’ she never cried—­not she!—­the little proud spitfire that she was, she jes’ stamped ‘er mite of a foot an’ she sez, sez she:  ’Did God make the wopses?’ An’ ’er nurse sez to ’er:  ‘Yes, o’ course, lovey, God made ‘em.’  ‘Then I don’t think much of Him!’ sez she.  Lord, Lord!  We larfed nigh to split ourselves that arternoon;—­we was all makin’ ‘ay an’ th’ owld Squire was workin’ wi’ us for fun-like.  ’I don’t think much o’ God, father!’—­sez Miss Maryllia, runnin’ up to ’im, an’ liftin’ up all ‘er petticuts an’ shewin’ the purtiest little legs ye ever seed; ‘Nurse sez He made the wopses!’ He-ee-ee-hor-hor-hor!”

A slow smile was reflected on the faces of the persons who heard this story,—­a smile that implied lurking doubt as to whether it was quite the correct or respectful thing to find entertainment in an anecdote which included a description of ‘the purtiest little legs’ of the lady of the Manor whose return to her native home was so soon expected,—­but Josey Letherbarrow was a privileged personage, and he might say what others dared not.  As philosopher, general moralist and purveyor of copy-book maxims, he was looked upon in the village as the Nestor of the community, and in all discussions or disputations was referred to as final arbitrator and judge.  Born in St. Rest, he had never been out of it, except on an occasional jaunt to Riversford in the carrier’s