n
he reached it, and passed quickly out, heedless of Phoebe's sorrowful
cry to him. He heard her light step following and only hastened his
speed for answer. Then, hurrying from her, a wave of change suddenly
flowed upon his furious mind, and he began to be very sorry. Presently
he stopped and turned, but she had stayed her progress by now, and for a
moment's space stood and watched him, bathed in tears. At the moment
when he hesitated and looked back, however, his wife herself had turned
away and moved homewards. Had she been standing in one place, Will's
purposes would perchance have faded to air, and his arm been round her
in a moment; but now he only saw Phoebe retreating slowly to Monks
Barton; and he let her go.

Blanchard went home to breakfast, and though Chris discovered that
something was amiss, she knew him too well to ask any questions. He ate
in silence, the past storm still heaving in a ground-swell through his
mind. That his wife should have stood up against him was a sore thought.
It bewildered the youth utterly, and that she might be ignorant of all
details did not occur to him. Presently he told his wrongs to Chris, and
grew very hot again in the recital. She sympathised deeply, held him
right to be angry, and grew angry herself.

"He 'm daft," she said, "an' I'd think harder of him than I do, but that
he's led by the nose. 'Twas that auld weasel, Billy Blee, gived him the
wink to set you on a task he knawed you'd never carry through."

"Theer's truth in that," said Will; then he recollected his last meeting
with the miller's man, and suddenly roared with laughter.

"'Struth! What a picter he was! He agged an' agged at me till I got fair
mad, an'--well, I spiled his meal, I do b'lieve."

His merriment died away slowly in a series of long-drawn chuckles. Then
he lighted his pipe, watched Chris cleaning the cups and plates, and
grew glum again.

"'Twas axin' me--a penniless chap; that was the devil of it. If I'd been
a moneyed man wi'out compulsion to work, then I'd have been free to say
'No,' an' no harm done. De'e follow?"

"I'm thankful you done as you did. But wheer shall 'e turn now?"

"Doan't knaw. I'll lay I'll soon find work."

"Theer's some of the upland farms might be wanting harrowin' an' seed
plantin' done."

"Who's to Newtake, Gran'faither Ford's auld plaace, I wonder?"

"'Tis empty. The last folks left 'fore you went away. Couldn't squeeze
bare life out of it. That's the fourth