been a week in his grave before Hugh bought up Mattha's
royalty in the Hammer Hole, and began to sink for iron. He's never found
much ore, as I've heard tell on, but he goes ahead laying down his
pumping engines, and putting up his cranes, and boring his mill-races,
just as if he was proper-ietor of a royal mine."

"Hugh is the chain-horse, and Paul's no'but the mare in the shafts,"
said Gubblum.

"And the money comes somehow," said Tom o' Dint, who had finished the
knife and was testing its edge in whittling a stick.

Matthew got up from his seat.

"I'll come again for the picks, John," he said quietly; and the old man
stepped out of the bright glow into the chill haze.

"Mattha has never been the same since laal Mercy left him," said the
blacksmith.

"Any news of her?" asked the peddler.

"Ax Tom o' Dint; he's the postman, and like to know if anybody in
Newlands gets the scribe of a line from the wench," said the miller.

Tom shakes his head. "You could tell summat, an' you would, ey, Tom?"
said the blacksmith, showing his teeth.

"Don't you misliken me," said the rural messenger in his husky tones;
"I'm none of your Peeping Toms." And the postman drew up his head with
as much pride of office as could be assumed by a gentleman of bowed legs
and curtailed stature.

"It baffles me as Mattha hisself could make nowt of his royalty in the
Hammer Hole, if there was owt to make out of it," said the miller from
the gate, buttoning his coat up to his ears.

"I've heard as he had a mind to try his luck again," said Giles Raisley.

"Nay, nay, nowt of the sort," said the blacksmith. "When the laal lass
cut away and left the auld chap he lost heart and couldn't bear the
sight of the spot where she used to bide. So he started back to his bit
place on Coledale Moss. But Hugh Ritson followed him and bought up his
royalty--for nowt, as they say--and set him to wark for wage in his own
sinking--the same that ruined the auld man lang ago."

"And he's like to see a fortun' come out of it yet," said Giles.

"It won't be Mattha's fortun', then."

"Nay, never fear," said the miner.

Gubblum shook the ashes out of his pipe, and said meditatively,
"Mattha's like me and the cuckoo."

"Why, man, how's that?" said the blacksmith, girding his leather apron
in a band about his waist. A fresh heat was in the fire; the bellows
were belching; the palpitating flames were licking the smoky hood. A
twinkle lurked in the blacksmith's