while Phoebe was reduced to
tears by perusal of her father's letter to Will.

"Thank Heaven the mystery's read now, an' us can see how Miller had his
eyes 'pon 'e both all along an' just waited for the critical stroke,"
said Mrs. Blanchard. "Sure I've knawed him these many years an' never
could onderstand his hard way in this; but now all's clear."

"He might have saved us a world of trouble and a sea o' tears if he'd
awnly spoken sooner, whether or no," murmured Chris, but Will would
tolerate no unfriendly criticism.

"He'm a gert man, wi' his awn way o' doin' things, like all gert men,"
he burst out; "an' ban't for any man to call un in question. He knawed
the hard stuff I was made of and let me bide accordin'. An' now get your
bonnets on, the lot of 'e, for I'm gwaine this instant moment to Monks
Barton."

They followed him in a breathless procession, as he hurried across the
farmyard.

"Rap to the door quick, dear heart," said Phoebe, "or I'll be cryin'
again."

"No more rappin' after thicky butivul letter," answered Will. "Us'll gaw
straight in."

"You walk fust, Phoebe--'tis right you should," declared Mrs. Blanchard.
"Then Will can follow 'e; an' me an' Chris--us'll walk 'bout for a bit,
till you beckons from window."

"Cheer up, Phoebe," cried Will. "Trouble's blawed awver for gude an' all
now by the look of it. 'Tis plain sailing hencefarrard, thank God, that
is, if a pair o' strong arms, working morning an' night for Miller, can
bring it about."

So they went together, where Mr. Lyddon waited nervously within; and
Damaris and Chris walked beside the river.

Upon his island sat the anchorite Muscovy duck as of yore. He was
getting old. He still lived apart and thought deeply about affairs; but
his conclusions he never divulged.

Yet another had been surprised into unutterable excitement during that
afternoon. John Grimbal found the fruit of long desire tumble into his
hand at last, as Major Tremayne made his announcement. The officer was
spending a fortnight at the Red House, for his previous friendship with
John Grimbal had ripened.

"By Jove! Tom Newcombe, by all that's wonderful!" he exclaimed, as Will
swung past him down the hill to happiness.

"That's not his name. It's Blanchard. He's a young fool of a farmer, and
Lord knows what he's got to be so cock-a-hoop about. Up the hill they're
selling every stick he's got at auction. He's ruined."

"He might be ruined, indeed, if I liked. 'Tom