"I shouldn't wonder," said Mrs. Haskell in sepulchral tones, "I shouldn't wonder but what she be a-goin' up to Susan's to pick out poor Abel's things."

"Dear, do you raly think so?" gasped Betty, almost dropping her basket in her horror. "Why the noos of him bein' killed only come this marnin'."

"I d' 'low she be a-goin' there," repeated Mrs. Haskell emphatically.

"If I was you, Betty, I'd follow 'em, careless-like, an' jist find out. It do really seem like a dooty for to find out. I'd go along of you only my wold man 'ull be a-hollerin' out for his tea."

A m.u.f.fled voice was indeed heard at that very moment proceeding from the bedroom, accompanied by an imperative knocking on the wall.

"There he be," said Mrs. Haskell, not without a certain pride. "He do know the time so reg'lar as church clock. He'll go on a-shoutin' and a-hammerin' at wall wi' his wold boot till I do come. I do tell en he wears out a deal more shoe-leather that way nor if he were on his feet."

She turned to go upstairs, and Betty crossing the threshold stood a moment irresolute. Her basket, full of purchases recently made at the shop a mile away, was heavy enough, and her feet were weary; but Jenny's tantalising red head gleamed like a beacon twenty yards away from her, and curiosity silenced the pleadings of fatigue. Hitching up her basket she proceeded in the wake of the young couple, who were walking slowly enough, the girl's bright head a little bent, the man slouching along by her side in apparent silence. All at once the observer saw Jenny's hand go to her pocket, and draw thence a handkerchief which she pressed to her eyes.

"She be a-cryin'" commented Betty, not without a certain satisfaction.

"They've a-had a bit of a miff, I d' 'low; well, if the young man have a-got the feelin's of a man he'd be like to object to this 'ere notion of hers--Nay, now, he do seem to be a-comfortin' of her. There! Well!"

They had left the village behind, and Betty's solitary figure was probably unnoticed by the lovers. In any case it proved no hindrance to the very affectionate demonstrations which now took place.

Presently Jenny straightened her hat, restored her handkerchief to her pocket, and walked on, "arm-in-crook" with her admirer.

"They be a-goin' to Susan's, sure enough. Well, to be sure! Of all the hard-hearted brazen-faced--!" words failed her, and she quickened her pace as the couple disappeared round the angle of the lane. A few minutes' brisk walking brought the pair, with Betty at their heels, to a solitary cottage standing a little back from the lane in the shelter of a high furze-grown bank. As the young man tapped at the door Jenny turned and descried Betty's figure by the garden-gate.

"Is it you, Mrs. Tuffin?" she inquired. "I can scarce see who 'tis wi'

the sun shinin' in my eyes. Be you a-goin' in?"

"It's me," responded Betty tartly, in reply to the first question, while she dismissed the second with an equally curt "I be."

The door opened and the figure of a stout elderly woman stood outlined against the glow of firelight within. She peered out, shading her eyes from the level rays of the sinking sun, and starting back at sight of Jenny.

"'Tis you, be it? Well, I didn't think you'd have the face to come, so soon."

"I did just look in to say a word o' consolation, Miss Vacher," said the girl, drawing herself up. "I be very grieved myself about this melancholy noos. I've a-been cryin' terrible, I have, an' says I, 'Me an' poor Abel's dear aunt 'ull mingle our tears.'"

"Mingle fiddlesticks!" said Susan. "What be that there young spark o'

yours a-doin' here? Be he come to drop a tear too?"

"He be come along to take care of I," said the girl demurely. "'Tis Mr. Sam Keynes. He didn't think it right for I to walk so far by myself. Did ye, Sam?"

"Well, now ye can walk back wi' her," said Susan, addressing that gentleman before he had time to answer. "I don't want no tears a-mingled here. Who be that by the gate?"

"'Tis me, Betty Tuffin," returned the owner of that name. "I didn't come wi' these 'ere young folks--don't think it, my dear. I come to see if this 'ere noos be true an' to tell you how sorry I be."

"I'd 'low the noos bain't true, but come in all the same, Betty. I be al'ays glad to see _you_. You'd best be marchin', Jenny Pitcher, you and your new sweetheart, else it'll be dark afore you get home."

Jenny looked at her admirer, who nodded encouragingly and nudged her with his elbow.

"I think as we've a-come so far," she remarked, "I must ax leave to step in for a bit, Miss Vacher. 'Tis a little matter o' business, and business is a thing what ought to be attended to immediate."

Miss Vacher threw open the door with such violence that the handle banged against the wall, and stepped back with sarcastic politeness.

"Oh, come in, do. Come, and poke and pry, and see what ye can pick for yourself."

Sarcasm had turned to fury by the time the end of the sentence was reached, and, as Jenny, overcome by conflicting emotions, was about to sink into the nearest chair, she darted forward and s.n.a.t.c.hed it away.

"That's mine anyhow," she cried emphatically. "You shan't touch that."

Jenny almost fell against the table, and gasped for a moment or two, partly from breathlessness, partly, as presently appeared, from grief.

"Oh, poor Abel!" she groaned, as soon as she could speak. "The poor dear fellow. Oh, oh dear!"

"I wouldn't take on so if I was you," said Betty sarcastically, while even Mr. Keynes surveyed his intended with a lowering brow, and gruffly advised her to give over.

"'Tis a pity to upset yourself so much," said Miss Vacher, with a shrill laugh. "I don't believe he be dead. Somebody 'ud ha' wrote if he was. The papers--you can't credit what they say in them papers."

"Oh, he's dead, sure enough," cried Jenny, suddenly recovering herself. "I know he's dead--I know'd he'd die afore he went out.

There, I had a kind o' porsentiment he'd be killed, and so had he, poor fellow. That's why he settled everything so thoughtful and kind.

Oh dear, oh dear! It fair breaks my heart to think on't. Poor Abel! he was too good for this world--that's what he was. We'll never, never see his likes again."

"Dear, to be sure, think o' that now!" cackled Betty. "I hope ye like _that_, Mr. Keynes."

Mr. Keynes evidently did not like it at all, if one might judge from his expression, but Jenny now turned towards him in artless appeal.

"You do know very well, Sam, don't you, as poor Abel was my first love? I've often told 'ee so, haven't I? You must remember, Sam, I did say often and often, as 'whatever happens you can only be my second.

Don't ever think,' says I, 'as you can ever be to me what he was.'"

At this point Sam's feelings were too many for him; he made a stride towards his charmer, and imperatively announced that he'd be dalled if he'd stand any more o' that. "Cut it shart, Jenny, cut it shart, or I'm off!"

"There, I did ought to think more o' your feelin's," said Jenny, drying her eyes with surprising prompt.i.tude. "I beg your pardon--I were that undone, ye see, wi' lookin' round at all my poor Abel's things, what's to be mine now. They do all seem to speak so plain to I--the very clock--"

"The clock!" exclaimed Susan, with an indignant start, "why that there clock have hung over chimney-piece for nigh upon farty year! That clock didn't belong to Abel!"

"That clock," said Jenny with mild firmness, "did belong to my poor Abel's father, and 'twas his by rights; he've a-left it to me wi' the rest of his things, and I shall value it for his sake. When I do hear it tickin' it will seem to say to I, _Think o'--me; think o'--me_."

"Jenny, drop it," cried Mr. Keynes with a m.u.f.fled roar of protest; "I tell 'ee 'tis more nor flesh and blood can bear. If you be a-goin' to think constant o' he you'd better ha' done wi' I."

"Sam, dear Sam," said Jenny in melting tones, "you be all as I've a-got left now; don't you desert me."

"Well, don't you go a-carryin' on that way," said Sam, still unmollified and eyeing her threateningly.

"You don't lay a finger on the clock," said Susan Vacher with spirit.

"Who told you that clock was Abel's? It's a-been there ever since my mother's time, and I've a-wound it up myself every Sat.u.r.day night."

"That clock belonged to Abel," repeated Jenny emphatically, "and he've a-left it to me in his will."

She drew a piece of paper from her pocket, opened it slowly, and proceeded to read its contents aloud, with great dignity.

"'In case o' my death, I, Abel Guppy, bein' firm in mind and body--'"

"What does he mean by that?" interrupted Betty. "Lawyer Wiggins did make my father's will an' 'tweren't wrote that way. What's 'firm in mind and body'?"

"This 'ere was copied from a pattern will what was bought for sixpence up to Mr. Marsh's in town," said Jenny loftily. "It do begin, '_I, M.N., bein' o' sound mind though infirm in body_'--Abel, d'ye see, weren't infirm in body; he were as well as ever he were in his life, poor chap, when he did set out."