all to go home.
If we greet at that, what'll we do when true sorrow comes across us?
How would you be now, Dame, if the boy there had broke his neck when
he got the tumble?"

Mrs. Greenacre was humbled and said nothing further on the matter.
But let prudent men such as Mr. Greenacre preach as they will, the
family of the Lookalofts certainly does occasion a good deal of
heart-burning in the world at large.

It was pleasant to see Mr. Plomacy as, leaning on his stout stick, he
went about among the rural guests, acting as a sort of head constable
as well as master of the revels. "Now, young'un, if you can't manage
to get along without that screeching, you'd better go to the other
side of the twelve-acre field and take your dinner with you. Come,
girls, what do you stand there for, twirling of your thumbs? Come out,
and let the lads see you; you've no need to be so ashamed of your
faces. Hollo there, who are you? How did you make your way in here?"

This last disagreeable question was put to a young man of about
twenty-four who did not, in Mr. Plomacy's eye, bear sufficient
vestiges of a rural education and residence.

"If you please, your Worship, Master Barrell the coachman let me in
at the church wicket, 'cause I do be working mostly al'ays for the
family."

"Then Master Barrell the coachman may let you out again," said Mr.
Plomacy, not even conciliated by the magisterial dignity which had
been conceded to him. "What's your name? And what trade are you?
And who do you work for?"

"I'm Stubbs, your worship, Bob Stubbs; and--and--and--"

"And what's your trade, Stubbs?"

"Plasterer, please your worship."

"I'll plaster you, and Barrell too; you'll just walk out of this 'ere
field as quick as you walked in. We don't want no plasterers; when we
do, we'll send for 'em. Come my buck, walk."

Stubbs the plasterer was much downcast at this dreadful edict. He
was a sprightly fellow, and had contrived since his ingress into the
Ullathorne elysium to attract to himself a forest nymph, to whom
he was whispering a plasterer's usual soft nothings, when he was
encountered by the great Mr. Plomacy. It was dreadful to be thus
dissevered from his dryad and sent howling back to a Barchester
pandemonium just as the nectar and ambrosia were about to descend on
the fields of asphodel. He began to try what prayers would do, but
city prayers were vain against the great rural potentate. Not only
did Mr. Plomacy order his exit but