"Fine growing marning, you." "Ay, casualty weather, though." Ding-ding-dill Dill-ding-dill This last was the cracked bell of the village church ringing "to service." The speakers were two farmers, who, after exchanging greeting, leant against the churchyard wall, and looked over, as they had done every fine-weather Sunday this thirty years. So regular was this pressure, that the moss which covered the coping-stones elsewhere was absent from the spot where they placed their arms. On the other side of the wall, and on somewhat lower ground, was a pigsty, beyond that a cow-yard, then a barn and some ricks.