"For my part," put in Mrs. Jim Lewarne, "I've given over follerin' the
freaks o' Fortune. They be so very undiscernin'."

And this sentence probably summed up the opinion of the majority.

In the midst of the excitement Young Zeb strode up to the stranger, who
stood a little behind the throng.

"Give me back my shoes," he said.

The other kicked them off and looked at him oddly.

"With pleasure. You'll find them a bit worn, I'm afraid."

"I'll chance that. Man, I'm not all sorry, either."

"Hey, why?"

"'Cause they'll not be worn agen, arter this night. Gentleman or devil,
whichever you may be, I bain't fit to dance i' the same parish with
'ee--no, nor to tread the shoeleather you've worn."

"By the powers!" cried the stranger suddenly, "two minutes ago I'd have
agreed with you. But, looking in your eyes, I'm not so sure of it."

"Of what?"

"That you won't wear the shoes again."

Then Zeb went after Ruby.

"I want to speak a word with 'ee," he said quietly, stepping up to her.

"Where?"

"I' the hall."

"But I can't come, just now."

"But you must."

She followed him out.

"Zeb, what's the matter with you?"

"Look here"--and he faced round sharply--"I loved you passing well."

"Well?" she asked, like a faint echo.

"I saw your eyes, just now. Don't lie."

"I won't."

"That's right. And now listen: if you marry me, I'll treat 'ee like a
span'el dog. Fetch you shall, an' carry, for my pleasure. You shall be
slave, an' I your taskmaster; an' the sweetness o' your love shall come
by crushin', like trodden thyme. Shall I suit you?"

"I don't think you will."

"Then good-night to you."

"Good-night, Zeb. I don't fancy you'll suit me; but I'm not so sure as
before you began to speak.".

There was no answer to this but the slamming of the front door.

At half-past seven that morning, Parson Babbage, who had risen early,
after his wont, was standing on the Vicarage doorstep to respire the
first breath of the pale day, when he heard the garden gate unlatched
and saw Young Zeb coming up the path.

The young man still wore his festival dress; but his best stockings and
buckled shoes were stained and splashed, as from much walking in miry
ways. Also he came unsteadily, and his face was white as ashes.
The parson stared and asked--

"Young Zeb, have you been drinking?"

"No."

"Then 'tis trouble, my son, an' I ask your pardon."

"A man might call it so. I'm come to forbi