again as soon as tha con, an' we'll go on wi' the
cannybles."

"What's th' lad been readin' to thee, Sammy?" asked Mrs. Craddock
entering the room, after Jud had taken his departure.

"A bit o' litterytoor. I dunnot know as tha'd know what th' book wur,
if I towd thee. Tha nivver wur mich o' a hand at litterytoor. He wur
readin' Robyson Crusoe."

"Not a tract, sure-ly?"

"Nay, that it wur na! It wur th' dairy o' a mon who wur cast upo' a
desert island 'i th' midst o' cannybles."

"The dairy?"

"Nay, lass, nay," testily, "not i' th' sense yo' mean. Th' dairy wur o'
th' litterairy soart. He wur a litterairy mon."

"Cannybles an' th' loike," Sammy said to him-self several times during
the evening. "Cannybles an' th' loike. Theer's a power o' things i' th'
universe."

He took his pipe after supper and went out for a stroll. Mental activity
made him restless. The night was a bright one. A yellow harvest moon was
rising slowly above the tree-tops, and casting a mellow light upon the
road stretching out before him. He passed through the gates and down the
road at a leisurely pace, and had walked a hundred yards or so, when
he caught sight of two figures approaching him--a girl and a man, so
absorbed that they evidently had not noticed him. The girl was of light
and youthful figure, and the little old red shawl she wore over her
head was pushed aside, and showed curly hair lying upon her brow. It was
plain that she was uneasy or frightened, for, as soon as she was near
enough, her voice reached him in a tone of frightened protest.

"Oh, dunnot!" she was saying, "I conna bear it I dunnot want to hear
yo', an'--an' I will na. Yo' moight ha' let me be. I dunnot believe yo'.
Let me go whoam. I'll nivver coom again," and then she broke out crying.

Craddock looked after them as they passed from sight.

"Theer's trouble there," he said, eagerly. "A working lass, an' a mon i'
gentlemen's cloas. Dom sich loike chaps, say I. What would they think if
workin' men ud coom meddlin' wi' theer lasses? I wish I'd had more toime
to see th' wench's face."

CHAPTER XXIV - Dan Lowrie's Return

Not a pleasant road to travel at any time--the high road to Riggan, it
was certainly at its worst to-night.

Between twelve and one o'clock, the rain which had been pouring down
steadily with true English pertinacity for two days, was gradually
passing into a drizzle still more unpleasant,--a drizzle that soaked
into the already soak