d him with the full love proper to such a
nature as her own; and, though she presently found herself powerless to
modify his character in any practical degree, his gloomy and uneven mind
never lessened the sturdy optimism of Chris herself, or her sure
confidence that the future would unite them. Through her protracted
engagement Mrs. Blanchard's daughter maintained a lively and sanguine
cheerfulness. But seldom was it that she lost patience with the dreamer.
Then her rare, indignant outbursts of commonplace and common sense, like
a thunderstorm, sweetened the stagnant air of Clement's thoughts and
awoke new, wholesome currents in his mind.

As a rule, on the occasion of their frequent country walks, Clem and
Chris found personal problems and private interests sufficient for all
conversation, but it happened that upon a Sunday in mid-December, as
they passed through the valley of the Teign, where the two main streams
of that river mingle at the foothills of the Moor, the subject of Will
and Phoebe for a time at least filled their thoughts. The hour was clear
and bright, yet somewhat cheerless. The sun had already set, from the
standpoint of all life in the valley, and darkness, hastening out of the
east, merged the traceries of a million naked boughs into a thickening
network of misty grey. The river beneath these woods churned in winter
flood, while clear against its raving one robin sang little tinkling
litanies from the branch of an alder.

Chris stood upon Lee Bridge at the waters' meeting and threw scraps of
wood into the river; Clem sat upon the parapet, smoked his pipe, and
noted with a lingering delight the play of his sweetheart's lips as her
fingers strained to snap a tough twig. Then the girl spoke, continuing a
conversation already entered upon.

"Phoebe Lyddon's that weak in will. How far's such as her gwaine in life
without some person else to lean upon?"

"If the ivy cannot find a tree it creeps along the ground, Chrissy."

"Ess, it do; or else falls headlong awver the first bank it comes to.
Phoebe's so helpless a maiden as ever made a picksher. I mind her at
school in the days when we was childer together. Purty as them china
figures you might buy off Cheap Jack, an' just so tender. She'd come up
to dinky gals no bigger 'n herself an' pull out her li'l handkercher an'
ax 'em to be so kind as to blaw her nose for her! Now Will's gone, Lard
knaws wheer she'll drift to."

"To John Grimbal. Any man cou