THE MALTHOUSE

This aged man was now sitting opposite the fire, his frosty white hair and beard overgrowing his gnarled figure like the grey moss and lichen upon a leafless apple-tree. He wore breeches and the laced-up shoes called ankle-jacks; he kept his eyes fixed upon the fire.

Gabriel's nose was greeted by an atmosphere laden with the sweet smell of new malt. The conversation (which seemed to have been concerning the origin of the fire) immediately ceased, and every one ocularly criticised him to the degree expressed by contracting the flesh of their foreheads and looking at him with narrowed eyelids, as if he had been a light too strong for their sight.

Several exclaimed meditatively, after this operation had been completed: -"Oh, 'tis the new shepherd, 'a b'lieve."

"We thought we heard a hand pawing about the door for the bobbin, but weren't sure 'twere not a dead leaf blowed across." said another. "Come in, shepherd; sure ye be welcome, though we don't know yer name."

"Gabriel Oak, that's my name, neighbours."

The ancient maltster sitting in the midst turned up this -- his turning being as the turning of a rusty crane.

"That's never Gable Oak's grandson over at Norcombe -- never!" he said, as a formula expressive of surprise, which nobody was supposed to take literally'.

"My father and my grandfather were old men of the name of Gabriel." said the shepherd, placidly.

"Thought I knowed the man's face as I seed him on the rick! -- thought I did! And where be ye trading o't to now, shepherd?"