Chapter V: Part 5

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 promptitude. "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 muffled 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 Saturday 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."

"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 document 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 gods 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 assist 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 apron, 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 apron, cautiously uncovered what seemed to be a very watery eye, and remarked in muffled 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."

"I'm sure," protested Jenny plaintively, "'twas only out o' respect for you, Abel, that I set out the things. 'Twas out o' fond memory for you. You know you did say yourself when you was a-writin' out your will, 'I'll leave you all my things, Jenny, so as you'll think o' me,'--an' I _did_ think o' you," she added, beginning to sob, "I'm sure I--I--I even wanted to put a bit o' black crape on your clock, but mother wouldn't let me."

"Well," interrupted Mrs. Pitcher apologetically, "I didn't think, ye know, it 'ud look very well to have crape about on my darter's weddin'-day. It wouldn't seem lucky. Or else I'm sure I wouldn't ha' had no objections at all--far from it, Abel."

"But I'd ha' had objections," cried Sam, who had stood by swelling with wrath. "I do think my feelin's ought to be considered so much as yon chap's, be he alive or dead. It's me what's married your darter, bain't it?"

"It be, Samuel; 'e-es I d' 'low it be," returned Mrs. Pitcher, with a deprecating glance at the yeoman who was now rolling up the rug. "We all on us thought as Abel was dead, ye see."

"Meanin', I suppose, as if ye knowed he was alive I shouldn't ha' had her," retorted Sam explosively. "Well, I d' 'low, it bain't too late yet to come to a understandin'. Jenny be married to I, sure enough, but I bain't a-goin' to ha' no wives what be a-hankerin' arter other folks. She may take herself off out of this wi'out my tryin' for to hinder her. If she can't make up her mind to give over upsettin' hersel' along o' he you may take her home-along, Mrs. Pitcher."

A dead silence ensued within the house, but Betty's strident tones could be heard without, uplifted in shrill discourse to curious neighbours.

"'E-es, d'ye see, he did write home so soon as he did get to Darchester, a-tellin' of his aunt as he was a-comin' private-like so as to surprise his sweetheart. And Susan, she did write back immediate an' say, 'My poor bwoy, there be a sad surprise in store for _you_.' And then when he comed they did make it up between them to keep quiet till--"

"There's the clock, too," observed Abel, ending the pause at last.

"You can take the clock," cried Jenny, simultaneously recovering speech and self-possession. "Take the clock, Abel Guppy, and take yourself off. There ben a mistake, but it be all cleared up at last."

She stepped with dignity across the room, and slipped her arm through Sam's, who made several strenuous but ineffectual efforts to shake her off.

"You get hold o' he," cried Sam; "you cut along an' catch hold o' he. It be he you do want."

"No, Samuel," said the incomparable Jenny with lofty resolution, "it bain't he as I do want. I mid ha' been took up wi' some sich foolish notion afore, bein' but a silly maid, but now I be a married 'ooman, an' I do know how to vally a husband's love."

The new-made bridegroom ceased struggling and gaped at her. Jenny, gazing at her former lover more in sorrow than in anger, pointed solemnly to the clock:--

"Take down that clock, Abel Guppy," she repeated. "I do know you now for what you be. I consider you've behaved most heartless an' unfeelin' in comin' here to try an' make mischief between man an' wife. I thank the Lard," she added piously, "as I need never ha' no more to do with you. Walk out o' my house, if ye please--"

"_Your_ house," interpolated Sam, a note of astonished query perceptible in his tone despite its sulkiness.

"'E-es," said Jenny firmly. "He shall never show his face inside the door where I be missis. Take down the clock, Abel Guppy," she repeated for the third time. "You'd best help him, Sam. He don't seem able to reach to it."

Encumbered as he was with newly-regained possessions, the yeoman had made but abortive attempts to detach the timepiece; and Sam, with a dawning grin on his countenance, now mounted on a chair, officiously held by one of the guests, and speedily handed it down.

After all it was the ill-used Abel Guppy who looked most foolish as he made his way to the door, loaded with his various goods, the relatives of bride and bridegroom casting scornful glances at him as he passed. Before he had proceeded twenty yards Sam ran after him with the bank-book, which the other pocketed without a word, while the bridegroom returned to the house, rubbing his hands and chuckling.

Jenny was already seated at the head of the table and received him with a gracious smile:--

"If you'll fetch another plate, Sam, my dear," she remarked, "I can begin for to cut the cake."

BLACKBIRD'S INSPIRATION

"What be lookin' at?" inquired Mrs. Bold, emerging from her dairy, and incidentally wiping her hands on a corner of her apron. "There ye've a-been standin' in a regular stud all the time I were a-swillin' out the churn."

Farmer Bold was standing at the open stable door, his grey-bearded chin resting on his big brown hand, his eyes staring meditatively in front of him. It was a breezy, sunny autumn day, and all the world about him was astir with life; gawky yellow-legged fowls pecked and scratched round his feet with prodigious activity, calves were bleating in the adjacent pens, while the very pigs were scuttling about their styes, squealing the while as though it were supper-time. The wind whistled blithely round the corners of the goodly cornstacks to the rear of the barton, and piped shrilly through their eaves; the monthly roses, still ablow, swung hither and thither in the fresh blast, strewing the cobblestones with their delicate petals. In all the gay, busy scene only the figure of the master himself was motionless, if one might except the old black horse which he appeared to be contemplating, the angular outlines of whose bony form might be seen dimly defined in the dusk of its stable.

Towards this animal Farmer Bold now pointed, removing his hand from his chin for the purpose. "I wur a-lookin' at Blackbird," he said, "poor wold chap! He was a good beast in his day, but I d' 'low his day be fair done. Tis the last night what Blackbird 'ull spend in this 'ere stall."

"Why," cried Mrs. Bold quickly, "ye don't mean to say--"

"I mean to say," interrupted her husband, turning to her with a resolutely final air, "I mean to say as Blackbird's sold."

"Sold!" ejaculated the woman incredulously. "Who'd ever go for to buy Blackbird?--wi'out it be one o' they rag-and-bone men, or maybe for a salt cart. Well, Joe," with gathering ire, "I didn't think ye'd go for to give up the faithful wold fellow after all these years, to be knocked about and ill-used at the last."

"Nay, and ye needn't think it--ye mid know as I wouldn't do sich a thing," returned her lord with equal heat. "I've sold en"--he paused, continuing with some hesitation, as he nodded sideways over his shoulder, "I've a-sold en up yonder for the kennels."

"What! To be ate up by them there nasty hounds? Joseph!"

"Come now," cried the farmer defiantly, "ye must look at it sensible, Mary. Poor Blackbird, he be a-come to his end, same as we all must come to it soon or late. He 've a-been goin' short these two years--ye could see that for yourself--and now his poor wold back be a-givin' out, 'tis the most merciful thing to destroy en. They'll turn en out to-week in the field up along--beautiful grass they have there--and he'll enjoy hisself a bit, and won't know nothin' about it when they finish en off."

"I al'ays thought as we'd keep Blackbird so long as he did live," murmured Mrs. Bold, half convinced but still lamenting, "seein' as we did breed en and bring en up ourselves, and he did work so faithful all his life. Poor wold Jinny! He wur her last colt, and you did al'ays use to say you'd keep en for her sake. Ah, 'tis twenty year since I run out and found en aside of her in the paddock--walkin' about as clever as you please, and not above two hours old. Not a white hair on en--d'ye mind?--and such big, strong legs! I was all for a-callin' en Beauty, but you said Beauty was a filly's name. And he did use to run to paddock-gate when he wur a little un, and I wur a-goin' to feed chicken--he'd know my very foot, and he'd come prancin' to meet I, and put his little nose in the bucket. Dear, to be sure, I mind it just so well as if it wur yesterday!"

The farmer laughed and stroked his beard.

"'E-es, he was a wonderful knowin' colt," he agreed, placidly. "There's a deal o' sense in beasts if ye take notice on 'em and treat 'em friendly like. Them little lambs as we did bring up to-year was so clever as Christians, wasn't they? Ye mind the little chap we did call Cronje, how he used to run to I when he did see I a-comin' wi' the teapot? And Nipper--ye mind Nipper? He didn't come on so well as the others; he was sickly-proud, so to speak, and wouldn't suckey out o' the teapot same as the rest. But he knowed his name so well as any o' them, and 'ud screw his head round, and cock his ears just as a dog mid do, when I did call en. Pigs, even," he proceeded meditatively, "there's a deal o' sense in pigs, if ye look for it. Charl', ye mind Charl', what he had soon after we was married? That there pig knowed my v'ice so well as you do. What I did use to come into the yard and did call 'Charl',' he'd answer me back, 'Umph.' Ho! ho! I used to stand there and laugh fit to split. Ye never heard anythin' more nat'ral. 'Charl',' I'd call; 'Umph' he'd go. Ho! ho! ho!"

The woman did not laugh; she was screwing up her eyes in the endeavour to penetrate the darkness of the stable. "Poor wold Blackbird," she said, "I wish it hadn't come to this. It do seem cruel someway. There, he did never cost 'ee a penny, wi'out 'twas for shoes, and he've a-worked hard ever sin' he could pull a cart--never a bit o' vice or mischief. It do seem cruel hard as he shouldn't end his days on the place where he was bred."

"My dear woman," said her husband loftily, "what good would it do the poor beast to end his days here instead of up yonder? He's bound to end 'em anyways, and we are twenty-two shillin' the better for lettin' of en go to the kennels."

"Twenty-two shillin'?" repeated his wife.

"'E-es, not so bad, be it? The pore fellow's fair wore out, but still, d'ye see, he fetches that at the last, and 'tis better nor puttin' an end to en for nothin'. Ah, there be a deal o' money in twenty-two shillin'!"

Mrs. Bold sighed. Perhaps she knew almost better than her husband how much toil and trouble it cost to get twenty-two shillings together. Twenty pounds of butter, twenty-two dozen eggs, eighty-eight quarts of milk! What early risings, what goings to and fro, what long sittings with cramped limbs and aching back, milking cow after cow in summer heat and winter cold, how many weary hours' standing in the flagged dairy before twenty-two shillings could be scraped together! She turned away, without another word.

Later in the evening poor old Blackbird was brought out of his stall, and, after receiving the farewell caresses of master and mistress, was led away, limping, to the kennel pasture.

"Don't 'urry en," called the farmer to the lad who had charge of him. "Tis a long journey for he--two mile and more; let en take his time. He'll get there soon enough."

The next morning, just as Mrs. Bold had finished getting breakfast, her husband came to the dairy in a state of amused excitement.

"There, ye'll never think! I al'ays did say beasts was so sensible as Christians if ye took a bit of notice of 'em. I was a-goin' round stables jist now, and if I didn't find wold Blackbird in his own stall, jist same as ever. I did rub my eyes and think I must be dreamin', but there he were layin' down, quite at home. He al'ays had a trick of openin' gates, ye know, and he must jist ha' walked away i' th' night. He wur awful tired, pore beast--'twas so much as I could do to get en off again."

"Ye sent en off again!" cried Mrs. Bold indignantly. "Well, I shouldn't ha' thought ye could have found it in yer heart! The poor wold horse did come back to we, so trustin', and you to go an drive en away again to his death! Dear, men be awful hard-hearted!"

"Of all the onraisonable creeturs, you are the onraisonablest," cried the farmer, much aggrieved. "Was I to go and take the folks' money and keep the money's worth? A nice name I'd get in the country! They'd be sayin' I stole en away myself, very like. No, I did send en up so soon as I could, so as they shouldn't be s'archin' for 'en."

Mrs. Bold clapped a plate upon the table.

"Sit down," she cried imperatively. "Ye'll be ready for your own breakfast, though you wouldn't give pore Blackbird a bit."

"Who says I didn't give en a bit?" retorted Joseph. "Ye be al'ays jumpin' at notions, Mary. Blackbird had as good a feed o' carn afore he did go as ever a horse had."

"Much good it'll do en when he's a-goin' to be killed," returned his spouse inconsequently. "There, it's no use talkin'; I must make haste wi' my breakfast and get back to my work. It's well for I as I be able to work a bit yet, else I suppose ye'd be sendin' me to the knackers."

"I never heerd tell as you was a harse," shouted the farmer. The wit and force of the retort seemed to strike him even as he uttered it, for his indignant expression was almost immediately replaced by a good-humoured grin. "I had ye there, Mary," he chuckled. "'I never heerd tell as you was a harse, says I."

Next churning day Mrs. Bold rose before dawn, according to her custom, and the churning was already in progress before the first grey, uncertain light of the autumnal morning began to diffuse itself through the latticed milk-house windows. All at once, during a pause in the labour, she fancied she heard a curious, hesitating fumbling with the latch of the door.

"Hark!" she cried, "what's that?"

"Tis the wind," said one of the churners.

"Nay, look, somebody's a-tryin' to get in," returned the mistress, as the latch rose in a ghostly manner, fluttered, and fell. "Go to the door, Tom," she continued, "and see what's wanted."

"'Tis maybe a spirit," said Tom, shrinking back.

"Nonsense! What would a spirit want at the dairy door? 'Tis more like a tramp. Open it at once--You go, Jane."

"I dursen't," said Jane, beginning to whimper.

"Not one of ye has a grain o' sense!" said Mrs. Bold angrily.

She went to the door herself, just as the odd rattling began for the third time, opened it cautiously, and uttered a cry.

There stood the attenuated form of poor old Blackbird, looking huge and almost spectral in the dim light, but proclaiming its identity by a low whinny.

"Rabbit me!" exclaimed Tom, "if that there wold carcase ain't found his way here again!"

But Mrs. Bold's arms were round the creature's neck, and she was fairly hugging him.

"Well done!" she cried ecstatically, "well done! Ye did well to come to I, Blackbird. I'll stand by ye, never fear! I'll not have ye drove away again."

Blackbird stood gazing at her with his sunken eyes, his loose nether lip dropping, his poor old bent knees bowed so that they seemed scarcely able to sustain his weight; the rusty skin, which had once been of so glossy a sable, was scratched and torn in many places.

"He must have found his way out through the hedge. Well, to think of his coming here, Missis!"

"He knowed he come to the right place," said Mrs. Bold, with flashing eyes. "Turn that there new horse out o' the stall and put Blackbird back, and give en a feed o' earn, and shake down a bit o' fresh straw. 'Tis what ye couldn't put up wi', could ye, Blackbird?" she continued, addressing the horse, "to find a stranger in your place! Ye come to tell I all about it, didn't ye?"

When the farmer came down half-an-hour later, his wife emerged from the shed in the neighbourhood of the pig-styes, where she had been ministering to the wants of two motherless little pigs. One small porker, indeed, was still tucked away under her arm as she advanced to meet her husband, and she was brandishing the teapot, from which she had been feeding it, in her disengaged hand.

"Joseph," she said, planting herself opposite to him, and speaking with alarming solemnity, "we've a-been wed now farty year come Lady Day. Have I bin a good wife to 'ee, or have I not?"

"Why, in course," Joseph was beginning, when he suddenly broke off. "What's the new colt standing in the cart-shed for?"

"Never you mind the new colt--attend to I! Have I been a good wife to 'ee, or have I not?"

"In course ye have--no man need ax for a better. But why--"

"Haven't I worked early and late, and toiled and moiled, and never took a bit o' pleasure, and never axed 'ee to lay out no money for I? Bain't I a-bringin' up these 'ere pigs by hand for 'ee, Joseph Bold? And a deal of worry they be. 'Twasn't in the marriage contract, I think, as I should bottle-feed sucking-pigs--was it now, Joseph? I d' 'low parson never thought o' axin' me if I were willin' to do that, but I've a-done it for your sake."

"Well, but what be ye a-drivin' at?" interrupted the farmer, with a kind of aggrieved bellow, for his wife's sorrowfully-reproachful tone cut him to the quick. "What's it all about? What be a-complainin' of? What d'ye want, woman? What d'ye want?"

"I want a pet," returned Mrs. Bold vehemently. "Here I've been a-livin' wi' ye all these years, and ye've never let me keep so much as a canary bird. There's the Willises have gold-fish down to their place, and they be but cottagers; and Mrs. Fripp have got a parrot. A real beauty he be, what can sing songs and laugh and shout like the children, and swear--ye'd think t'was Fripp hisself, he do do it so naitral!"

Joseph Bold fairly groaned:

"Good Lard! I never did think to hear 'ee talk so voolish--a sensible body like ye did always use to seem! Dear heart alive! Gold-fish! And a poll parrot! Well, Mary, I did think as a body o' your years could content herself wi' live things as had a bit more sense in 'em nor that."

"Oh, I dare say," returned his spouse sarcastically. "Pigs and sich-like!" giving a little tap to the wriggling, squeaking creature at that moment struggling under her arm, "and chicken and ducks! Nice pets they be."

"Upon my word, a man 'ud lose patience to hear you. _Pets_--at your time o' life, wi' children grown up and married. Well, if ye want pets, ha'n't ye had enough of 'em. Don't ye have nigh upon a dozen lambs to bring up every spring?"

"'E-es, and where be they now, Joseph? Where be the lambs as I got up afore light in the frostis and snow to attend to? Where be they? Ye know so well as I do as butcher had 'em, every one. That's my complaint--you do never let me keep a thing as isn't for killin'. A body'd need a heart o' stone to stand it. This 'ere pig--ye know right well as he'll be bacon afore this time next year."

"Then, in the name of furtin have your fancy, woman! Give it a name, and I'll get it for 'ee."

"Ye give me your word, do ye, Joseph?"

"I bain't a man to break it," responded the farmer shortly.

Mrs. Bold set the little pig carefully on its feet, and sidled across the yard, eyeing her husband the while with a curious expression that was half-fearful, half-triumphant. When she reached the closed stable door she opened it, plunged into the dark recess within, and reappeared, dragging forth by a wisp of his ragged mane--poor, decrepit old Blackbird.

"Here's my little pet," she cried jubilantly, delight at her success overmastering all other feelings. "You've give me your word, Joseph, and, as ye d'say yerself, ye bain't the one to take it back. Here's the only pet I'll ever ax to keep. He'll not cost much," she added, seeing her husband's face redden and his eyes roll threateningly. "He can pick about in the summer, and a bit of hay in the winter'll be all he'll need. I'll make it up to 'ee, see if I don't; and I think you do owe I summat, anyhow, for workin' so hard as I always do."

"Oh, in course, if ye put it that way," he returned, huffily, "I haven't got a word to say. I al'ays thought 'twas a wife's dooty to help her husband, but since it seems to be a favour, I'm sure I did ought to be very grateful. Thank ye kindly, ma'am! P'r'aps ye'll be so good as to shut up that beautiful pet o' yourn now, and give me a bit o' breakfast, if it bain't troublin' ye too much."

"Oh, go on, Joseph!" exclaimed Mrs. Bold, with heightening colour, turning Blackbird about as she spoke, and propelling him before her towards the stall. "I couldn't do nothin' else nor want to keep him," she added in an aggrieved tone, "when he come to the dairy door--he come actually to the dairy door!--same as if he knowed 'twas his last chance."

The farmer did not answer, but in spite of himself a dawning expression of interest was perceptible on his face.

"'E-es, an' he must ha' broke through a hedge to get out; he be cut about terrible wi' thorns."

"They did padlock th' gate when I sent en back last time," returned Joseph gruffly, adding, in the same tone, "Ye'd better sponge they sore places a bit after breakfast, and get dust out of 'em."

Mrs. Bold installed Blackbird in his old quarters, and hastened to the house.

The meal which ensued was at first a somewhat silent one. In spite of her satisfaction at having gained her point, Mrs. Bold felt somewhat remorseful for the tactics she had employed; and her husband stolidly munched his bread and bacon with a solemn, not to say gloomy, countenance.

All at once, however, he began to roll his head from side to side, while the colour on his already rubicund face deepened so much that his wife gazed at him in alarm, dreading the ensuing outburst. But when after long repression the explosion actually took place, it proved to be one of harmless and jovial laughter.

"What is it?" inquired Mrs. Bold, laughing delightedly too, though she knew not at what.

"I've bin a-thinkin' o' summat. Dear heart alive, Mary, the queer notions as do seem to be a-comin' into our heads all this week! D'ye mind my sayin', 'I never knowed as you was a harse'? Ha! ha! Ye couldn't say much to that, could 'ee? And when I think o' you standin' in yard jist now, wavin' the teapot and tuckin' the little pig under your arm! 'Bottle-feedin' suckin'-pigs weren't in the marriage contract,' says you. Ho! ho! ho! Whatever put it i' your head to say that, I can't think."

"I didn't really mean it, my dear," said Mary penitently, though she laughed still.

"I dare say not, but I've bin a-thinkin' 'tis a pity your pet bain't a size or two smaller--he be sixteen hands if he be a inch--else maybe ye'd like to have en in here a-layin' on the hearthrug."

Then husband and wife laughed long and loud, and their little difference was forgotten as their eyes met.

THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM

On one particular Sunday in August, a brilliant sunny, breezeless day, such a day as would under ordinary circumstances conduce to certain drowsiness even in the most piously disposed, the church-goers of Little Branston were preternaturally alert, if not quite so attentive as usual. For behold! Corporal Richard Baverstock, Widow Baverstock's only son, and the father of Matilda Ann, the three-year-old darling of the village, had returned from the wars with a very brown face, a medal, two or three honourable scars, and, it was whispered, a pocketful of "dibs."

Every one knew about Corporal Dick, the sharp boy who had been the general pet and plaything in early years, much as his own "Tilly Ann" was now; the dashing soldier, whose occasional visits to his native place in all the glories of uniform had caused on each occasion a flutter of excitement which had endured long after his own departure; the hero of romance, whose sudden appearance with a beautiful bride, wedded secretly somewhere up the country, had made more than one pretty maid's heart grow sore within her, and caused many wiseacres to shake their heads; the disconsolate young widower whose year-old wife had been laid to rest in the churchyard yonder, immediately after the birth of their child; the boy-father, bending half wonderingly over the blue-eyed baby on his mother's knee; the warrior, wounded "out abroad," whose letters had been passed from hand to hand in the little place, and conned over and admired and marvelled at till old Mrs. Baverstock, when each mail came to hand, found herself raised to a pinnacle of honour to which otherwise she would never have dared to aspire--he had come home now for a brief blissful fortnight before rejoining his regiment at the depĂ´t. Not one of the congregation there present but had heard of his return on the previous day, and of how he had almost knocked over the old mother in the vehemence of his greeting, and how he had caught up Tilly Ann and hugged her, and some said cried over her; and how he had almost within the hour walked up to the little cemetery and knelt by his wife's grave, which, the neighbours opined, "howed a wonderful deal o' feelin' in the man as 'twas a'most to be expected he'd ha chose a second by now."

"But they d' say, my dear, as the women out abroad be a terrible ugly lot, and most of 'em black. Tisn't likely as Corporal Baverstock 'ud so much as look at any o' they, arter pickin' sich a vitty maid for his first missis."

It was Mrs. Cousins who made this remark to Mrs. Adlam, as they paced together along the flagged path that led to the church porch; and it is not surprising that both ladies felt constrained to turn their heads when the martial tread of Soldier Dick resounded up the church a few moments later.

Jenny Meatyard nudged Maggie Fripp.

"Do 'ee see his medal?" she inquired in a whisper.

Maggie nodded. "That there korky uniform do suit en wonderful well."

Two village mothers exchanged glances of tender approbation, for, clinging to Corporal Baverstock's hand, and taking preposterously long steps in the endeavour to keep pace with his strides, was Tilly Ann, in her best starched white frock, and with her yellow hair curled in a greater profusion of corkscrew ringlets than her granny had ever yet achieved.

"Bain't it a pictur'?" one pair of motherly eyes seemed to say to the other, and I think many of the good simple folk performed their devotions all the better because of the consciousness of the two happy hearts, the man's and the little child's, beating in their midst.

The service once over, friends and neighbours gathered round the young soldier outside the church door. Those nearest spoke to him; those less fortunate, on the outskirts of the little crowd, contented themselves with admiring comments.

"He d' seem to have filled out, though he have been punished so terrible out yonder."

"My dear, they did tell I as his poor leg was all one solid wownd. D'ye mind how Mrs. Baverstock did take on, pore 'ooman. And well she mid."

"Well she mid, indeed. Ah! 'tis a comfort to see as Corporal Baverstock d' seem able to walk so well as ever. I see Mrs. Baverstock didn't come to church--'tis a wonder."

"Nay, no wonder at all. It bain't likely as the poor body could leave her Sunday dinner the very first day her son be a-comed home. She's busy, that's what she be."

"Ah! to be sure. There, Lard now, look at Tilly Ann! He've a-got her up in his arms. Dear, to be sure, 'tis a beautiful sight, they two faces side by side. The maid doesn't favour her daddy a bit--nay, 'tis the very pictur' o' the pore wife."

"'E-es; she had that yellow hair, and them great big blue eyes. There, I've a-got a china cup at home what be jist the same colour. 'Tisn't nat'ral for a maid to have eyes that blue. I wouldn't mention it to Mrs. Baverstock, nor yet to Dick, but I shouldn't wonder at all if Tilly Ann was to follow her mother afore very long, pore little maid."

"Ah! they do say as when a young mother be took like that, as often as not she'll keep on a-callin' and a-callin', till the pore little thing she've a-left behind fair withers away."

While this cheerful line of prognostication was being followed up beyond her ken, Tilly Ann sat bolt upright in her father's arms, looking round her with a proprietary air, and occasionally patting his cheek with a broad dimpled little palm. She was a tall, well-made child, plump and fair, with rosy cheeks and sturdy limbs that would in themselves have given the lie to any dismal croakings; it was no wonder that "daddy's" eyes perpetually rested on her with a glow of pride.

"And she were quite a little 'un when ye did last see her, weren't she, Corporal?" said some one. (In Branston the good folk were punctilious with regard to titles.) "Ye'd scarce ha' knowed her I d' 'low if ye'd met her on the road."

"Know her," said Corporal Baverstock, "I'd know her among a thousand! 'Tis what I did write to my mother. Says I, 'I'd pick her out anywheres, if 'twas only by the dimple in her chin.'"

The bystanders nodded at each other; they remembered that particular letter well, and had much appreciated the phrase in question.

"To be sure, Corporal, so ye did, so ye did. And the maid have a dimple sure enough. There, 'tis plain for all folks to see."

Tilly Ann turned up her little face, and her father kissed the cleft chin with sudden passion. Then he tossed her up in his arms and laughed.

"Many a time I've a-thought o' that dimple," he observed, in rather an unsteady voice, "and wondered if I'd ever set eyes on it again."

"And look at her curls," said a woman admiringly. "They be a-sheenin' like gold to-day. She thinks a deal o' they curls, don't 'ee, Tilly? If anybody axed her for one she'd al'ays say she was a-savin' on 'em up for daddy--didn't 'ee, Tilly?"

Tilly Ann, overcome with coyness, buried her face in her father's shoulder, and giggled, wriggling her little fat body the while, and drumming on his side with her lace-up boots.

"Hold hard there!" cried he. "Them boots of yourn be so bad as a pom-pom. Come, we must be lookin' up the wold lady. Say Ta-ta, and we'll be off."

One blue eye peeped out shyly from beneath the forest of curls, one little sunburnt hand was waved comprehensively; a smothered voice uttered the necessary "Ta-ta," with an accompaniment of chuckles and wriggles, and the soldier, clasping his burden more tightly, and nodding laughingly right and left made his way towards home.

No one, looking at Mrs. Baverstock as she stood at her doorway in her neat black stuff gown, the sleeves of which were decently drawn down to her very wrists, would have guessed at the magnitude of the culinary labours in which she had been employed. The beef was now done to a turn, the "spuds" boiled to a nicety; she had made pastry of the most solid description, which was even now simmering in the oven--I use the word "simmering" advisedly, for in the generosity of her heart she had not spared the dripping. The tea was brewed, hot and strong, the teapot, singed by long use, standing on the hob. There was a crusty loaf, a pat of butter indented in the middle with one of Dick's regimental buttons, and a plate of cakes, hard as the nether--millstone and very crumbly, having been purchased from the distant town at the beginning of the week in expectation of this auspicious day.

"Well, mother, this be a spread!" cried the soldier, good-humouredly, as he set the child upon her legs. "I haven't sat down to such a meal as this since I left old England. 'Tis fit for a king."

Mrs. Baverstock rubbed her bony hands together; and laughed deprecatingly. She was a little woman, with very bright, beady black eyes, and hair that was still coal-black in spite of her wrinkled face. Her son was like her, but taller and better looking. One had but to glance at the child to realise that she must be the image of her mother.

"Nay, now," said the widow; "I do do my best for 'ee, Dick, but I d' 'low it bain't so very grand. I'd like to do 'ee honour. There bain't nothin' too good for 'ee to my mind, if I could give it 'ee."

"I tell 'ee, mother, some of the poor chaps out yonder 'ud give summat to sit down to this 'ere dinner. Bully beef wi' a pound or two o' raw flour, what you haven't got nothin' to cook wi'--it do make a man feel a bit sick, I can tell 'ee, when it do come day arter day."

"Dear heart alive," groaned his mother, "a body 'ud think they mid manage a bit better! Lard, to think on't! Tis all along o' the poor dear Queen bein' dead, ye mid be sure! There needs to be a woman at the head o' things! I reckon the Government be all made up o' men folks now, and men never has any notion o' doin' for theirselves. There, I did use to say to father many a time, 'If I was to leave 'ee to yourself I d' 'low ye'd go eatin' any kind o' rubbish.' There wants to be a sensible woman or two i' th' Government--no woman 'ud ever think o' sendin' out the poor chaps' bit o' food raw. There bain't a hedger or ditcher but has his bit o' dinner put ready for en, and I reckon soldiers have got stummicks much same as other folks."

Dick had only half attended to this speech; he had been standing by the door intently gazing up the village street, and shading his eyes with his hand.

"Why, I'm blowed!" he exclaimed. "Here's a mate o' mine ridin' this way! Yes, so it be. I thought he was goin' a-coortin'. Hullo, Billy!"

A bicycle wheeled round abruptly, and the rider alighted at the cottage door. A big young man, with the bronzed face which would have announced his recent return from the front, even had not his khaki uniform proclaimed the fact.

"I thought I'd look 'ee up," he explained, shaking hands with his friend with a somewhat sheepish air. "You and me bein' mates, d'ye see, and me feelin' a bit dull over yonder."

"Why, what's become o' she?" interrupted Dick, with a grin.

"Don't talk about her! She be just like the rest--'Out o' sight out o' mind'--took up wi' a civilian soon as my back were turned. I reckoned I'd come and have a look at _your_ maid."

"Yes, to be sure!" cried Dick jovially. "My sweetheart han't a-took up wi' anybody else--she've a-been faithful and true."

"What's that?" inquired Mrs. Baverstock, coming forward, her little black eyes looking ready to start from her head.

"Tis a kind of a little joke what me and Billy have a-got between us about my sweetheart. There, he can tell 'ee the tale while we're eatin'. This 'ere be my mother, Billy. This be Mr. Billy Caines--a Darset man same as myself. Him and me was reg'lar pals out there, wasn't we, Bill?"

"I d' 'low we was," responded Private Caines, after ceremoniously pumping Mrs. Baverstock's hand up and down. "We did fight side by side, and we was wounded side by side, and we was a-layin' side by side for weeks in the field hospital, wasn't us, Dick?"

"I reckon we had a bit too much o' that there hospital," responded the Corporal, drawing forward a chair for his friend. "'Twas there we did have so much talk about my sweetheart. Ha, ha, ye didn't know as I'd a-got a sweetheart, did ye, old lady?" he inquired of his mother. "Billy 'ull tell 'ee about that," and he winked surreptitiously at his friend.

Mrs. Baverstock was evidently in a flutter. What between this sudden arrival of six feet of khaki-clad humanity and the innuendoes which had been recently thrown out, touching a subject on which she felt strongly (the possibility of Dick's marrying again), she actually set the pastry on the table in the place of the beef, and helped the two soldiers to a cake each instead of a piece of bread.

"Why, you be wool-gathering, that you be. You've a-got everything in a reg'lar caddie!" cried her son, as she paused to clack her tongue remorsefully over her mistakes. "Business first and pleasure arterwards. Up wi' the beef! Now then, Billy, fall to! A bit better tasted nor bully, bain't it?"

Billy groaned appreciatively, with his mouth full, and silence ensued, during which Mrs. Baverstock cut up Tilly Ann's dinner, and presented her with a spoon.

Tilly Ann's eyes had been fixed unwinkingly upon the new comer since his arrival, and she had now apparently classified him, for, after successfully piloting one or two spoonfuls of beef and potato to her little red mouth, she paused, drummed on the table with the handle of her spoon, and remarked conclusively:

"Another daddy!"

"Dear, to be sure! Hark to the child," said granny, while the two men laughed uproariously.