the pipe, did but bring on him another
torrent.

"It's queer," said the farmer, putting the mouth of the pipe to his
wrinkled-up temples.

Richard waited for him, and then he laid down the pipe altogether, as
no aid in perplexity, and said, after leaning his arm on the table and
staring at Richard an instant:

"Look, young gentleman! My word's gone. I've spoke it. I've given 'em
the 'surance she shan't be back till the Spring, and then I'll have
her, and then--well! I do hope, for more reasons than one, ye'll both be
wiser--I've got my own notions about her. But I an't the man to force
a gal to marry 'gainst her inclines. Depend upon it I'm not your
enemy, Mr. Fev'rel. You're jest the one to mak' a young gal proud. So
wait,--and see. That's my 'dvice. Jest tak' and wait. I've no more to
say."

Richard's impetuosity had made him really afraid of speaking his notions
concerning the projected felicity of young Tom, if indeed they were
serious.

The farmer repeated that he had no more to say; and Richard, with "Wait
till the Spring! Wait till the Spring!" dinning despair in his ears,
stood up to depart. Farmer Blaize shook his slack hand in a friendly
way, and called out at the door for young Tom, who, dreading allusions
to his Folly, did not appear. A maid rushed by Richard in the passage,
and slipped something into his grasp, which fixed on it without further
consciousness than that of touch. The mare was led forth by the Bantam.
A light rain was falling down strong warm gusts, and the trees were
noisy in the night. Farmer Blaize requested Richard at the gate to
give him his hand, and say all was well. He liked the young man for his
earnestness and honest outspeaking. Richard could not say all was well,
but he gave his hand, and knitted it to the farmer's in a sharp squeeze,
when he got upon Cassandra, and rode into the tumult.

A calm, clear dawn succeeded the roaring West, and threw its glowing
grey image on the waters of the Abbey-lake. Before sunrise Tom Bakewell
was abroad, and met the missing youth, his master, jogging Cassandra
leisurely along the Lobourne park-road, a sorry couple to look at.
Cassandra's flanks were caked with mud, her head drooped: all that was
in her had been taken out by that wild night. On what heaths and heavy
fallows had she not spent her noble strength, recklessly fretting
through the darkness!

"Take the mare," said Richard, dismounting and patting her between the
eyes. "She's d