‘Sit down, Shepherd Oak,’ continued the ancient man of malt. ‘And how was the old place at Norcombe, when ye went for your dog? I should like to see the old familiar spot; but faith, I shouldn't know a soul there now.’

‘I suppose you wouldn't. 'Tis altered very much.’

‘Is it true that Dicky Hill's wooden cider-house is pilled down?’

‘Oh yes – years ago, and Dicky's cottage just above it.’

‘Well, to be sure!’

‘Yes; and Tompkin's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear two hogsheads of cider, and no help from the other trees.’

‘Rooted? – you don't say it! Ah! stirring times we live in – stirring times.’

‘And you mind the old well that used to be in the middle of the place? That's turned into a solid iron pump with a large stone trough, and all complete.’

‘Dear, dear – how the face of nations alter, and what we live to see nowadays! Yes – and t'is the same here.’