Garnham?" he demanded, turning fiercely on a
listener.

Mr. Garnham, whose eyes were watering with emotion, attempted to explain,
but, becoming hysterical, thrust a huge red handkerchief to his mouth and
was led away by a friend. Mr. Quince regarded his departure with mild
disdain.

"Little things please little minds," he remarked.

"So they do," said Mr. Hogg. "I never thought--What's the matter with
you, George Askew?"

Mr. Askew, turning his back on him, threw up his hands with a helpless
gesture and followed in the wake of Mr. Garnham. Mr. Hogg appeared to be
about to apologise, and then suddenly altering his mind made a hasty and
unceremonious exit, accompanied by the farmer.

Mr. Quince raised his eyebrows and then, after a long and meditative
pinch of snuff, resumed his work. The sun went down and the light faded
slowly; distant voices sounded close on the still evening air, snatches
of hoarse laughter jarred upon his ears. It was clear that the story of
the imprisoned swain was giving pleasure to Little Haven.

He rose at last from his chair and, stretching his long, gaunt frame,
removed his leather apron, and after a wash at the pump went into the
house. Supper was laid, and he gazed with approval on the home-made
sausage rolls, the piece of cold pork, and the cheese which awaited his
onslaught.

"We won't wait for Ned," said Mrs. Quince, as she brought in a jug of ale
and placed it by her husband's elbow.

Mr. Quince nodded and filled his glass.

"You've been giving more advice, I hear," said Mrs. Quince.

Her husband, who was very busy, nodded again.

"It wouldn't make no difference to young Pascoe's chance, anyway," said
Mrs. Quince, thoughtfully.

Mr. Quince continued his labours. "Why?" he inquired, at last.

His wife smiled and tossed her head.

"Young Pascoe's no chance against our Ned," she said, swelling with
maternal pride.

"Eh?" said the shoemaker, laying down his knife and fork. "Our Ned?"

"They are as fond of each other as they can be," said Mrs. Quince,
"though I don't suppose Farmer Rose'll care for it; not but what our
Ned's as good as he is."

"Is Ned up there now?" demanded the shoemaker, turning pale, as the
mirthful face of Mr. Garnham suddenly occurred to him.

"Sure to be," tittered his wife. "And to think o' poor young Pascoe shut
up in that stable while he's courting Celia!"

Mr. Quince took up his knife and fork again, but his appetite had gone.