gain to Monks Barton 'fore
you knaw it."

"Is that the awnly way? Oh, Will, how terrible!"

"God knaws I've done worse 'n that. But no man's gwaine to steal the
maid of my choosin' from me while I've got brains and body to prevent
it."

"Let me look at you, lovey--just the same, just the same! 'Tis glorious
to hear your voice again. But this thin coat, so butivul in shaape, tu!
You 'm a gentleman by the look of it; but 't is summer wear, not
winter."

"Ess, 'tis cold enough; an' I've got to get back to Newton to-night. An'
never breathe that man's name no more. I'll shaw 'e wat 's a man an'
what ban't. Steal my true love, would 'e?--God forgive un, I
shaan't--not till we 'm man an' wife, anyway. Then I might. Give 'e up!
Be I a chap as chaanges? Never--never yet."

Phoebe wept at these words and pressed Will to her heart.

"'Tis strength, an' fire, an' racing blood in me to hear 'e, dear,
braave heart. I was that weak without 'e. Now the world 's a new plaace,
an' I doan't doubt fust thought was right, for all they said. I'll meet
'e as you bid me, an' nothin' shall ever keep me from 'e now--nothing!"

"'T is well said, Phoebe; an' doan't let that anointed scamp kiss 'e
more 'n he must. Be braave an' cunnin', an' keep Miller from smelling a
rat. I'd like to smash that man myself now wheer he stands,--Grimbal I
mean,--but us must be wise for the present. Wipe your shiny eyes an'
keep a happy faace to 'em, an' never let wan of the lot dream what's hid
in 'e. Cock your li'l nose high, an' be peart an' gay. An' let un buy
you what he will,--'t is no odds; we can send his rubbish back again
arter, when he knaws you'm another man's wife. Gude-bye, Phoebe dearie;
I've done what 'peared to me a gert deed for love of 'e; but the sight
of 'e brings it down into no mighty matter."

"You've saved my life, Will--saved all my days; an' while I've got a
heart beating 't will be yourn, an' I'll work for 'e, an' slave for 'e,
an' think for 'e, an' love 'e so long as I live--an' pray for 'e, tu,
Will, my awn!"

He parted from her as she spoke, and she, by an inspiration, hurried
towards the approaching crowd that the trampled marks of the snow where
she had been standing might not be noted under the gleam of torches and
lanterns.

John Grimbal's prophecy was happily not fulfilled in its gloomy
completeness: nobody had blown his head off; but Billy Blee's
prodigality of ammunition proved at last too much for the blunderbuss o