He sank back and remembered no more.
The man in the smock was gone, but another countryman was coming down the road at that moment from the direction of Carlisle.

This was no other than little blink-eyed Reuben Thwaite.

He was sitting muffled up in his farm wagon and singing merry snatches to keep the cold out of his lungs.

Reuben had been at Carlisle over night with sundry hanks of thread, which he had sold to the linen weavers.

He had found a good market by coming so far, and he was returning to Wythburn in high feckle.