Farmer Brattle, who was a stout¹ man about thirty-eight years of age but looking as though he were nearly ten years older, came up to the Vicar, touching² his hat, and then putting his hand out in greeting.

“This be a pleasure something like, Muster³ Fenwick, to see thee here at Startup. This be my wife. Molly, thou has never seen Muster Fenwick from Bull’umpton. This be our Vicar, as mother and Fanny says is the pick of all the parsons in Wiltshire.”

Then Mr. Fenwick got down, and walked into the spacious⁴ kitchen, where he was cordially welcomed by the stout mistress of Startup Farm.

He was very anxious to begin his story to the brother alone. Indeed, as to that, his mind was quite made up; but Mrs. Brattle, who within the doors of that house held a position at any rate equal to that of her husband, did not seem disposed to give him the opportunity. She understood well enough that Mr. Fenwick had not come over from Bullhampton to shake hands with her husband, and to say a few civil words. He must have business, and that business must be about the Brattle family. Old Brattle was supposed to be in money difficulties, and was not this an embassy in search of money? Now Mrs. George Brattle, who had been born a Huggins, was very desirous that none of the Huggins money should be sent into the parish of Bullhampton. When, therefore, Mr. Fenwick asked the farmer to step out with him for a moment, Mrs. George Brattle looked very grave, and took her husband apart and whispered a word of caution into his ear.

“It’s about the mill, George; and don’t you do nothing till you’ve spoke⁵ to me.”

Then there came a solid look, almost of grief, upon George’s face. There had been a word or two before this between him and the wife of his bosom⁶ as to the affairs of the mill.

“I’ve just been seeing somebody at Salisbury,” began the Vicar, abruptly⁷, as soon as they had crossed from the yard behind the house into the enclosure around the ricks.

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