g down his pipe; "so
am I in earnest, and wan word 's gude as a hunderd in a pass like this.
You must hear the truth, an' that never broke no bones. You 'm no more
fitted to have a wife than that tobacco-jar--a hot-headed, wild-fire of
a bwoy--"

"A right Jack-o'-Lantern, as everybody knaws," suggested Mr. Blee.

"Ess fay, 'tis truth. Shifting and oncertain as the marsh gallopers on
the moor bogs of a summer night. Awnly a youth's faults, you mind; but
still faults. No, no, my lad, you've got to fight your life's battle and
win it, 'fore you'm a mate for any gal; an' you've got to begin by
fightin' yourself, an' breaking an' taming yourself, an' getting
yourself well in hand. That's a matter of more than months for the best
of us."

"And then?" said Will, "after 'tis done? though I'm not allowin' I'm
anything but a ripe man as I stand here afore you now."

"Then I'd say, 'I'm glad to see you grawed into a credit to us all, Will
Blanchard, and worth your place in the order o' things; but you doan't
marry Phoebe Lyddon--never, never, never, not while I'm above ground.'"

His slow eyes looked calmly and kindly at Will, and he smiled into the
hot, young, furious face.

"That's your last word then?"

"It is, my lad."

"And you won't give a reason?"

"The reason is, 'what's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh.' I
knawed your faither. You'm as volatile as him wi'out his better paarts."

"Leave him wheer he lies--underground. If he'd lived 'stead of bein' cut
off from life, you'd 'a' bin proud to knaw him."

"A gypsy-man and no better, Will," said Mr. Blee. "Not but what he made
a gude end, I allow."

"Then I'll be up and away. I've spoke 'e fair, Miller--fair an'
straight--an' so you to me. You won't allow this match. Then we'll wed
wi'out your blessin', an' sorry I shall be."

"If that's your tune, my young rascal, I'll speak again! Phoebe's under
age, remember that, and so sure as you dare take her a yard from her awn
door you'll suffer for it. 'Tis a clink job, you mind--a prison
business; and what's more, you 'm pleased to speak so plain that I will
tu, and tell 'e this. If you dare to lift up your eyes to my child
again, or stop her in the way, or have speech with her, I'll set
p'liceman 'pon 'e! For a year and more she 'm not her awn mistress; and,
at the end of that time, if she doan't get better sense than to tinker
arter a harum-scarum young jackanapes like you, she ban't a true Lyddon.
Now be off