truck the
right note; but Ship fell foul of Phoebe's little terrier and there was
a growl, then a yelp and a scuffling, dusty battle amid frightened
fowls, whose protests added to the tumult. Upon this conflict descended
Will's sapling with sounding thuds administered impartially, and from
the skirmish the smaller beast emerged lame and crying, while the
sheep-dog licked the blood off his nose and went to heel with a red
light glimmering through his pale blue eyes.

Happiness returned indoors and Phoebe, all blushes and praises,
inspected her new home and the preparations made within it for her
pleasure. Perhaps she simulated more joy than the moment brought, for
such a day, dreamed of through years, was sure in its realisation to
prove something of an anti-climax after the cruel nature of all such
events. Despite Chris and her ceaseless efforts to keep joy at the
flood, a listlessness stole over the little party as the day wore on.
Phoebe found her voice not to be relied upon and felt herself drifting
into that state between laughter and tears which craves solitude for its
exhibition. The cows came home to be milked, and there seemed but few of
them after the great procession at Monks Barton. Yet Will demanded her
separate praises for each beast. In the little garden he had made,
budding flowers, untimely transplanted, hung their heads. But she
admired with extravagant adjectives, and picked a blossom and set it in
her dress. Anon the sun set, with no soft lights and shadows amidst the
valley trees she knew, when sunset and twilight played hide-and-seek
beside the river, but slowly, solemnly, in hard, clean, illimitable
glory upon horizons of granite and heather. The peat glowed as though it
were red-hot, and night brooded on the eastern face of every hill. Only
a jangling bell broke the startling stillness then, and, through long
weeks afterwards the girl yearned for the song of the river, as one who
has long slept by another's side sadly yearns for the sound of their
breathing by night, when they are taken away. Phoebe had little
imagination, but she guessed already that the life before her must
differ widely from that spent under her father's roof. Despite the
sunshine of the time and the real joy of being united to her husband at
last, she saw on every side more evidences of practical life than she
had before anticipated. But these braced her rather than not, and she
told herself truly that the sadness at bottom of