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 ‘is one of the most rebellest rozums you ever knowed—not a bit like the rest of his family; and if there’s one thing that he do hate more than another ’tis the notion of what’s called an old family. He says that it stands to reason that old families have done their spurt of work in past days, and can’t have anything left in ’em now. There’s the Billetts and the Drenkhards and the Greys and the St. Quintins and the Hardys and the Goulds, who used to own the lands for miles down this valley; you could buy ’em all up now for an old song a’most. Why, our little Retty Priddle here, you know, is one of the Paridelles—the old family that used to own lots o’ the lands out by King’s-Hintock now owned by the Earl o’ Wessex, afore even he or his was heard of. Well, Mr. Clare found this out, and spoke quite scornful to the poor girl for days. “Ah!” he says to her, “you’ll never make a good dairymaid! All your skill was used up ages ago in Palestine, and you must lie fallow for a thousand years to git strength for more deeds!” A boy came here t‘other day asking for a job, and said his name was Matt, and when we asked him his surname he said he’d never heard that ’a had any surname, and