s own thoughts as he rode,
instead of the words of a companion. The sun went down; the boughs
appeared scratched in like an etching against the sky; old crooked men
with faggots at their backs said 'Good-night, sir,' and Darton replied
'Good-night' right heartily.

By the time he reached the forking roads it was getting as dark as it had
been on the occasion when Johns climbed the directing-post. Darton made
no mistake this time. 'Nor shall I be able to mistake, thank Heaven,
when I arrive,' he murmured. It gave him peculiar satisfaction to think
that the proposed marriage, like his first, was of the nature of setting
in order things long awry, and not a momentary freak of fancy.

Nothing hindered the smoothness of his journey, which seemed not half its
former length. Though dark, it was only between five and six o'clock
when the bulky chimneys of Mrs. Hall's residence appeared in view behind
the sycamore-tree. On second thoughts he retreated and put up at the ale-
house as in former time; and when he had plumed himself before the inn
mirror, called for something to drink, and smoothed out the incipient
wrinkles of care, he walked on to the Knap with a quick step.

CHAPTER V

That evening Sally was making 'pinners' for the milkers, who were now
increased by two, for her mother and herself no longer joined in milking
the cows themselves. But upon the whole there was little change in the
household economy, and not much in its appearance, beyond such minor
particulars as that the crack over the window, which had been a hundred
years coming, was a trifle wider; that the beams were a shade blacker;
that the influence of modernism had supplanted the open chimney corner by
a grate; that Rebekah, who had worn a cap when she had plenty of hair,
had left it off now she had scarce any, because it was reported that caps
were not fashionable; and that Sally's face had naturally assumed a more
womanly and experienced cast.

Mrs. Hall was actually lifting coals with the tongs, as she had used to
do.

'Five years ago this very night, if I am not mistaken--' she said, laying
on an ember.

'Not this very night--though 'twas one night this week,' said the correct
Sally.

'Well, 'tis near enough. Five years ago Mr. Darton came to marry you,
and my poor boy Phil came home to die.' She sighed. 'Ah, Sally,' she
presently said, 'if you had managed well Mr. Darton would have had you,
Helena or none.'

'Don't be senti