.

As the little man went down the hill toward the ferry he was pounced upon
by Mother Butson, who regularly now watched for him and waylaid him on his
way home.

"Hold hard, Peter Benny--it's no use your trying to slip by now!"

"I wasn't, Mrs. Butson; indeed, now, I wasn't!" he protested; though
indeed this waylaying had become a torment to him.

"Well, and what have they decided?" The poor old soul asked it fiercely,
yet trembled while waiting for his answer, almost hoping that he would
have none.

Mr. Benny longed to say that nothing was decided; but the letter in his
pocket seemed to be burning against his ribs. He was a truthful man.

"It don't lie with me, Mrs. Butson; I'm only the clerk, and take my
orders. But I must warn you not to be too hopeful. The person that Mr.
Rosewarne selected will come down and be interviewed. That's only right
and proper."

All the village knew by this time what had happened at the last Board
meeting.

"Coming, is she? Then 'tis true what I've heard, that the old varmint
went straight from the meetin' and wrote off to the woman, and that the
hand of God struck 'en dead in his chair. Say what you will,"--the cracked
voice shrilled up triumphantly--"'tis a judgment! What's the woman's
name?"

"That I'm not allowed to tell you. And look here, Mrs. Butson--you
mustn't use such talk of my poor dead master; indeed you mustn't."
He looked past her appealingly and at Mrs. Trevarthen, who had come to her
doorway to listen.

"I said what I chose to 'en while he was alive, and I'll say what I choose
now. You was always a poor span'el, Peter Benny; but John Rosewarne never
fo'ced _me_ to lick his boots. 'Poor dead master!'" she mimicked.
"Iss fay!--dead enough now, and poor, he that ground the poor!"
At once she began to fawn. "But Mr. Sam'll see justice done.
You'll speak a word for me to Mr. Sam? He's a professin' Christian, and
like as not when this woman shows herself she'll turn out to be some
red-hot atheist or Jesuit. To bring the like o' they here was just the
dirty trick that old heathen of yours would enjoy. Some blasphemy it must
ha' been, or the hand o' God'd never have struck 'en as it did."

"Folks are saying," put in Mrs. Trevarthen from the doorway, "that Sall
here ill-wished 'en. But she didn't. 'Twas his own sins compassed his
end. Look to your ways, Peter Benny! Your master was an unbeliever and
an oppressor, and now he's in hell-fire."

M