at. The roomy dwelling-house of her late
partner became her property and a sufficient income went with it. Mr.
Coomstock's business had been sold in his lifetime; the money was
invested, and its amount no man knew, though rumour, which usually
magnifies such matters, spoke of a very handsome figure; and Mrs.
Coomstock's lavish manner of life lent confirmation to the report. But
though mundane affairs had thus progressed with her, the woman's
marriage was responsible for very grave mental and moral deterioration.
Prosperity, and the sudden exchange of a somewhat laborious life for the
ease and comfort of independence, played havoc with Widow Coomstock. She
grew lax, gross in habit and mind, self-indulgent, and ill-tempered.
When her husband died her old friends lost sight of her, while only
those who had reason to hope for a reward still kept in touch with her,
and indeed forced themselves upon her notice. Everybody predicted she
would take another husband; but, though it was now nearly eight years
since Mr. Coomstock's death, his widow still remained one. Gaffer
Lezzard and Billy Blee had long pursued her with varying advantage, and
the latter, though his proposals were declined, yet saw in each refusal
an indication to encourage future hope.

Now, urged thereto by whispers that Mr. Lezzard had grown the richer by
three hundred pounds on the death of a younger brother in Australia,
Billy determined upon another attack. He also was worth something--less
indeed than three hundred pounds; though, seeing that he had been
earning reasonably good wages for half a century, the fact argued but
poor thrift in Mr. Blee. Of course Gaffer Lezzard's alleged legacy could
hardly be a sum to count with Mrs. Coomstock, he told himself; yet his
rival was a man of wide experience and an oily tongue: while, apart from
any question of opposition, he felt that another offer of marriage might
now be made with decorum, seeing that it was a full year since the last.
Mr. Blee therefore begged for a half-holiday, put on his broadcloth,
blacked his boots, anointed his lion-monkey fringe and scanty locks with
pomatum, and set forth. Mrs. Coomstock's house stood on the hill rising
into the village from Chagford Bridge. A kitchen garden spread behind
it; in front pale purple poppies had the ill-kept garden to themselves.

As he approached, Mr. Blee felt a leaden weight about his newly polished
boots, and a distinct flutter at the heart, or in a less