helper, carried another fowl. Dick o' the Syke,
the miller, in a brown coat whitened with flour, walked abreast of
Geordie and tickled the gills of the fowl with a straw. Job Sheepshanks,
the letter-cutter, carried a pot of pitch and a brush, and little Tom o'
Dint hobbled along with a handful of iron files. Behind these came the
landlord of the Flying Horse, with a basket over one arm, from which
peeped the corks of many bottles, and Natt, the stableman at the Ghyll,
carried a wicker cage, in which sat a red bantam-cock with spurs that
glittered in the light.

There was one other man who walked with the company, and he was the soul
of the noisy crew; his voice was the loudest, his laugh the longest, and
half of all that was said was addressed to him. He was a lusty man with
a florid face; he wore a suit of tweeds plaided in wide stripes of buff
and black.

It was Paul Drayton.

"Burn my body, and what's on now?" he said, as the gang reached the
church.

"Rush-bearing, I reckon," answered Tom o' Dint.

"And what's rush-bearing?"

"You know, Mister Paul," said the postman, "rush-bearing--the barns
rush-bearing--St. Peter's Day, you know."

"Oh, ay, I know--rush-bearing. Let me see, ain't it once a year?"

"What, man, but you mind the days when you were a bit boy and went
a-rushing yersel'?" said the blacksmith.

"Coorse, coorse, oh, ay, I ain't forgotten them days. Let me see, it's a
kind of a harvest-home, ain't it?"

"Nowt o' the sort," said Dick, the miller, testily. "Your memory's
failing fast, Mister Ritson."

"And that's true, old fence. I'll never be the same man again after that
brain fever I had up in London--not in the head-piece, you know."

The group of men and dogs had drawn up in front of the church just as
Brother Peter crossed the church-yard to the porch, carrying a red paper
in his hand.

"Who's that--the Methodee man?"

"It's the Methodee, for sure," said the blacksmith.

"Ey, it's the parson's Peter," added the postman, "and yon paper is a
telegraph--it's like he's takin' it to somebody."

"Hold hard, my boys," said Drayton; and, leaving his cronies he strode
through the lych-gate and down the path, the dogs yapping around him.

Brother Peter had drawn up at the door of the porch; the children were
still singing.

"If that telegram is for my wife, you may hand it over to me," said
Drayton, and reached out his hand to take it.

Brother Peter drew back.

"It'll be all right,