ael winced at the hit, and the Parson laughed as he tied two of
Phoebe's ringlets into a bow under her chin.

"There are ways and ways of remembering the Creator in the days of your
youth, Phoebe," he said, "and one of them's by dancing and singing--if
it's with the right kind of chap. I don't think much of Jacka's
John-Willy; if you really want to be a great lady to-night you must get
Ishmael to dance with you. He's going to be master of the feast, and
perhaps if you ask him very nicely he'll dance with you just once."

This view of Ishmael as a person of importance was a new one to
Phoebe, and she looked at him as though appraising him afresh.

"I don't ask no chaps to dance wi' I," she announced loftily. "Faether's
just comen' to see you, Da Boase."

She wriggled her sleek little otter-like head under his arm and slipped
past him as she spoke. Then:

"Like to see the pigs?" she asked Ishmael carelessly. "Da ringed 'en the
marnen'."

"Don't mind if I do," answered Ishmael, still scraping the gravel.

"Naden't come ef 'ee don't want to more'n thet!" retorted Phoebe, "and
I could have shown 'ee where the old pig was killed. There's been a dark
place on the stones ever since. I saw it killed, I did, Ishmael Ruan. I
saw Da stick in the knife and the blood come all out, I ded!"

"So 'a ded, my 'andsome, so 'a ded!" applauded the miller, whose big
form, powdery white, had appeared in the passage.

The Parson felt decidedly sick. He was country-born himself, and, being
no mere dreamer of dreams, realised that it was as well that country
people should not flinch at the less poetic side of their lives, but
this callousness struck him as horrible in a young child like Phoebe.
Yet as he saw Ishmael wince he regretted the very sensibility in the
boy, the lack of which had shocked him in Phoebe. He knew Ishmael had
a horror of blood and disagreeable sights, and the thought of how often
the boy would have to encounter them struck at his heart.

"I won't see it," said Ishmael, pressing himself back against the house
wall; "I won't see where no pig was killed." Then, afraid lest Phoebe
should taunt him with his fear: "But I'll come and see the pigs, though
I don't s'pose they're as fine as ours. They were ringed yesterday was a
week, and even the piggy-widden's bigger than most pigs."

"Ours is bigger, ours is bigger!" cried Phoebe indignantly, "and you'm
nawthen but a geat coward, Ishmael Ruan. I don't want _my_ pigs to s