"Well, let's hear," said Susan with a martyrised air.

"'I, Abel Guppy,'" resumed Jenny, "'bein' firm in mind and body, do hereby state as I wish for to leave my sweetheart, Jenny Pitcher, if I do die in this 'ere war, all what I've a-got in this world. The money in the Savings Bank--'" Betty groaned and threw up her eyes to heaven; Susan involuntarily clenched her fist; Sam's brow cleared.

"'The money in the Savings Bank,'" repeated Jenny unctuously, "'and any bits o' furniture what belongs to I, more partic'lar the clock over the chimney-piece, the two chaney dogs, and the warmin'-pan--'"

"Well, I never!" interrupted Susan; "them two chaney dogs my mother bought herself off a pedlar that come to the door. I mind it so well as if it were yesterday."

"Very like she did," returned Jenny sharply. "And when she died hadn't Abel's father, what was her eldest son, the best right to 'em? And when he went to his long home they was Abel's, and now they'm mine--and the warmin'-pan too," she added defiantly.

"Well, of all the oudacious--" Susan was beginning, when Jenny cut her short, continuing to read in a high clear voice--

"'And half-a-dozen silver spoons, also the hearth-rug what was made out o' my old clothes--'"

"I'm--I'm blowed if you shall get the hearthrug," cried Susan explosively. "That's mine whatever the rest mid be. Them clothes was only fit to put on a scarecrow, an' I cut 'em up, and picked out the best bits, and split up a wold sack and sewed on every mortial rag myself; and I made a border out of a wold red skirt o' mine."

"And a handsome thing it is too, my dear," said Betty admiringly.

"They was Abel's clothes, though," said Jenny; "ye can't get out o'

that, Miss Vacher."

"No, but there's one thing _you_ can't get out of, Miss Jenny, so clever as ye think yerself," cried the outraged possessor of the hearthrug. "You be a-comed here on false pertences. Even if my nevvy _be_ dead you han't a-got no right to these 'ere things now. He wrote it plain, 'I leave 'em all _to my sweetheart_ if I'm killed.' Well, you wasn't his sweetheart when he was killed--you was a-walkin' out wi' this 'ere chap."

"Abel Guppy did mean I to have they things," said Jenny. "I was his sweetheart at the time he wrote it, and if I left off bein' his sweetheart 'twas because I felt he was too good to live. I knowed he wouldn't come back--as I tell you I had a porsentiment. I were forced to take up wi' Sam because I knowed Abel 'ud never make any livin'

maid his bride."

"That's the third time!" cried Sam, ramming on his hat, and making for the door. "I've had about enough o' this. I'll look out for another maid as hasn't got a sweetheart i' th' New House--you be altogether a cut above the likes of I."

Susan obligingly opened the door for him, and in a moment he was gone, leaving Jenny staring blankly after him.

The banging of the garden-gate seemed to restore her to her senses.

With a scream she threw the paper on the floor, and rushed out of the house, calling wildly on her lover. Soon the sound of the hurrying steps was lost in the distance, and the two women simultaneously turned to each other, eyes and mouth equally round with amazement.

At last Betty, slowly extending her forefinger, pointed to the will.

"I know," said Susan, finding voice all at once. "I've a good mind to pop it i' the fire."

Betty shook her head admonishingly.

"I wouldn't do that," she said, with a note of reproof in her voice.

"'T'ud be real dangerous. Folks could be sent to prison for meddling wi' wills, an' sich."

Susan, who had grasped the doc.u.ment in question, dropped it as if it burnt her.

"My very spoons!" she said with a groan. "I tell 'ee, Betty, I'd a deal sooner bury 'em nor let her have 'em."

"I d' 'low you would," said Mrs. Tuffin commiseratingly; "but I don't advise 'ee to do it, my dear--'twouldn't be safe, an' you'd be bound to give 'em up one time or another. I d' 'low that maid be a-actin' as she be to spite ye more nor anythin' else; the more unwillin' you be, the more she'm pleased."

"Very like," agreed Susan. "She knowed I never were for Abel takin' up wi' her, an' al'ays said so much as I could again the match."

"Well, if you'll take my advice, Susan, you'll jist disapp'int her by givin' in straight off. If I was you I'd jist make up a bundle o' they things what Abel left her; pack 'em all up an' pin the will on top, an' give 'em to carrier to take to her, an' jist write outside, 'Good riddance o' bad rubbish,' or 'What ye've touched ye may take,' or some sich thing to show ye didn't care one way or t'other. I d' 'low that 'ud shame her."

"Maybe it would," said Miss Vacher dubiously, though with a latent gleam of malice in her eye.

"Take my advise an' do it then," urged Mrs. Tuffin earnestly. "Make the best of a bad job an' turn the tables on she. All the village 'ull be mad wi' her--the tale 'ull be in every one's mouth."

Miss Vacher compressed her lips and meditatively rubbed her hands.

"Well, I will; but I'll tell 'ee summat--I'll cut off every inch o'

that red border."

She picked up the rug as she spoke and held it out. "That'll spile the looks of it anyhow," she remarked triumphantly.

The threat was carried into effect, and on the morrow poor Abel Guppy's little household G.o.ds were duly transferred to the home of his former sweetheart. Jenny professed great indifference to Susan's scornful message, and continued to hold her head high in spite of the storm of indignation provoked by her conduct. She claimed and carried off the departed yeoman's Savings Bank book, and was much aggrieved on finding that the authorities would not at once permit her to avail herself of the little vested fund; inquiries must be made, they said, and in any case some time must elapse before she could be permitted to draw the money out.

This was the only real cloud on Jenny's horizon, however, and she speedily forgot it in the midst of her wedding preparations. She and her Sam had made up their little difference, and as he was well-to-do in the world, and quite able to support a wife, there seemed to be no reason for delay.

The banns were duly called, therefore, and on one sunshiny summer's day Jenny and Sam, followed by a little band of near relatives, walked gleefully to their new home from the church where they had been made one. Betty Tuffin, who, as a lone woman, could not in justice to herself refuse any paying job, however little she might approve of her employer, had been left to take care of the house and to a.s.sist in preparing the refreshments, As the little party approached the cottage door they were surprised to see her standing on the threshold, now portentously wagging her black-capped head, now burying her face in her ap.r.o.n, evidently a prey to strong emotion, though of what particular kind it was difficult to say.

The bride hastened her steps, and Betty, who had for the twentieth time taken refuge in her ap.r.o.n, cautiously uncovered what seemed to be a very watery eye, and remarked in m.u.f.fled and quavering tones from behind its enveloping folds--

"I'm afeared you'll be a bit took a-back when ye go indoor, my dear; best go cautious. I d' 'low ye'll be _surprised_!'

"What d'ye mean?" cried Jenny in alarm. "What's the matter?"

"Anything wrong?" inquired Sam from the rear.

But Betty was apparently entirely overcome, and could only intimate by repeated jerking of her thumb over her shoulder her desire that they should go in and see for themselves.

A long table was spread in the centre of the living-room, and, at the moment that the bridal party entered, a tall figure, dressed in kharki, was walking hastily round it, picking up a spoon from each cup.

"Abel!" shrieked Jenny, staggering back against her husband.

"What, bain't ye dead?" gasped the latter with a dropping jaw.

Abel added another spoon to his collection, and then looked up:--"This 'ere only makes five," he said; "there did ought to be six. Where's t'other?"

"Dear heart alive!" groaned Jenny's mother. "Jist look at en. We thought en dead an' buried, an' here he be a-carryin' off the spoons!"

"I bain't dead, ye see," returned the yeoman fiercely. "There's more Abel Guppys nor one i' the world, an' the man what got shot was a chap fro' Weymouth. If I _was_ dead an' buried, all the same d'ye think I'd leave my spoons to be set out at another man's weddin'? Where's the other chaney dog?"

He had already pocketed one, and now cast a vengeful glance round.

"On the dresser, Abel," gasped Jenny faintly; "oh, my poor heart, how it do beat! To think o' your comin' back like that! Oh, Abel, I made sure you was killed."

"And you're very sorry, bain't ye?" returned her former lover with wrathful irony, "I'll thank ye for my bank-book, if ye please. Ye haven't drawed the money out--that's one good thing. They telled I all about it at the post-office yesterday. That's my dish, too." Extending a long arm he deftly whisked away the large old-fashioned platter which had supported the wedding-cake, dusting off the crumbs with an air of great disgust.

"I think ye mid have found summat else to put your cake on," he said, with a withering look; "I think ye mid ha' showed a bit more feelin'

than that."