“‘Twude be a grand marriage vor the likes o’ yu, Miss Zairy, vor the Crewys du be the yoldest vambly in all Devonsheer, as I’ve yeard tell; and yure volk bain’t never comed year at arl befar yure grandvather’s time.  Eh, what a tale there were tu tell when old Sir Timothy married Mary Ann!  ’Twas a vine scandal vor the volk, zo ’twere; but I wuden’t niver give in tu leaving Youlestone.  But doan’t ‘ee play the vule wi’ Master Peter, Miss Zairy.  Take ’un while yu can git ’un, will ’ee?  And be glad tu git ’un.  Yu listen tu I, vor I be a turble witty man, and I be giving of yu gude advice, Miss Zairy.”

“I am listening, Jack, and you know I always take your advice.”

“Ah! if ‘twerent’ for the anny-dominy, I’d be tu yure wedding,” sighed Happy Jack, “zame as I were tu Mary Ann’s.  Zo I wude.”

She took his knotted hand, discoloured with the labour of eighty years, and bade him farewell.

“Thee be a lucky maid,” said Happy Jack, closing his eyes.

* * * * *

The tears were yet glistening on Sarah’s long lashes, when she met the doctor on his way to the cottage she had just quitted.

She was in no mood for talking, and would have passed him with a hasty greeting, but the melancholy and fatigue of his bearing struck her quick perceptions.

She stopped short, and held out her hand impulsively.

“Dr. Blunderbuss,” said Sarah, “did you very much want Peter to find out that—­that he could live without his mother?”

“Has anything happened?” said the doctor; his thin face lighted up instantly with eager interest and anxiety.

“Only that” said Sarah.  “You trusted me, so I’m trusting you.  Peter’s found out everything.  And—­and he isn’t going to let her sacrifice her happiness to him, after all.  I’ll answer for that.  So perhaps, now, you won’t say you’re sorry you told me?”

“For God’s sake, don’t jest with me, my child!” said the doctor, putting a trembling hand on her arm.  “Is anything—­settled?”

“Do I ever jest when people are in earnest?  And how can I tell you if it’s settled?” said Sarah, in a tone between laughing and weeping.  “I—­I’m going there to-night.  I oughtn’t to have said anything about it, only I knew how much you wanted her to be happy.  And—­she’s going to be—­that’s all.”

The doctor was silent for a. moment, and Sarah looked away from him, though she was conscious that he was gazing fixedly at her face.  But she did not know that he saw neither her blushing cheeks, nor the groups of tall fern on the red earth-bank beyond her, nor the whitewashed cob walls of Happy Jack’s cottage.  His dreaming eyes saw only Lady Mary in her white gown, weeping and agitated, stumbling over the threshold of a darkened room into the arms of John Crewys.

“You said you wished it,” said Sarah.

She stole a hasty glance at him, half frightened by his silence and his pallor, remembering suddenly how little the fulfilment of his wishes could have to do with his personal happiness.