"Why, who in the world is this?" asked the man.
"Oh! oh! It's only a beggar-man who came here so late and begged for house-room; he was quite content if he might only lie among the firewood," said the goody.
"A pretty beggar," said the man; "why he has got silver buckles to his shoes, and silver buttons at his knees."
"All are not beggars who are tattered and torn," said the lad; "but I'm blest if this isn't our parish clerk."
"What was he doing here, mistress," asked her husband, who all the while kept on pulling and kicking at him. But our clerk never so much as stirred or lifted a finger. There stood the goody fumbling and stammering, and not knowing what to say. All she could do was to bite her thumb.
"I see it in your face what you have done, mistress," said her husband. "But life is hard to lose, and, after all, he was our parish clerk. If I did what was right, I should send off at once for the sheriff."
"Heaven help us," said the wife; "only get our clerk out of the way."
"This is your matter and not mine," said the man. "I never asked him hither, nor sent for him; but if you can get any one to help you to get rid of him, I won't stand in your way."
Then she took the lad on one side, and said—
"I've laid up some woollen stuff for my husband, but I'll give it to you for clothes, if you'll only get our clerk buried, so that he shall never be seen or heard of again."
