What was there to tell the Vicar that this grotesque old figure was--so far as his village was concerned at any rate--no less than Fruitful Chance and the Unforeseen, the Hag weak men call Fate.

But for us, you understand, no more than Mrs.Skinner.
As she was too much encumbered for a curtsey, she pretended not to see him and his friend at all, and so passed, flip-flop, within three yards of them, onward down towards the village.

The Vicar watched her slow transit in silence, and ripened a remark the while....
The incident seemed to him of no importance whatever.

Old womankind, _aere perennius_, has carried bundles since the world began.

What difference has it made?
"We are out of it all," said the Vicar.