The day was darkening by the time Richard reached the village.  Around the inn door were a group of miners, who stared at his bare head hard enough, but gave way to him civilly.  They were talking and laughing loudly, and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands.  It was evident that somebody had been “standing treat” in the narrow passage; and leaning their elbows on the sill of the little bar window were more miners, each with his pint pot of ale.

“Here’s luck to Trevethick and Coe,” said one, “for a parting toast.”

“Ha, ha, that’s good!” cried another, in appreciation of this commercial epigram; “Trevethick and Coe; to be sure.”

“Trevethick and Coe, and may the copper last!”

But one, emboldened by the liquor, or naturally more audacious than the rest, put his head and shoulders through the open window, and, making a trumpet of his two hands, whispered in a hoarse voice, audible to every one:  “And is it to be Coe and Trevethick also, Miss Harry—­eh?”

Then the window was slammed down with no gentle hand, and the men went out laughing heartily, and for the first time leaving room for Richard to pass in.  He did not look toward the bar window, but, as though he had heard nothing, walked quickly past it into the sitting-room, which had been allotted to him.  It was strange, since what he had just heard only confirmed the suspicions which he had already entertained, that the words should give him annoyance; but they certainly did so.  What was more natural than that this inn-keeper’s daughter should be engaged to marry her father’s friend—­a man apparently well-to-do, and with a prospect of doing better?  What could be more unreasonable than for Mr. Richard Yorke, a young gentleman whose only hope in life was to marry a girl—­or an old woman, for that matter—­with a good fortune, to be irritated at such intelligence, especially after an acquaintance with this “Miss Harry” of about three hours at most?  After a minute or two of reflection the idea seemed to strike even himself in the same light; for he gave a short sharp laugh, and said what a fool he was, and then lit his pipe.  Even tobacco, however, that balm of hurt minds, did not altogether soothe him.  He could think of nothing but this young girl, whose beauty had bewitched him, and to whose courage and presence of mind he owed his life.  He had sworn to himself—­and there was no necessity to repeat it—­that he meant her no harm.  Indeed, it would not be less than she deserved to ask her to be his wife.  Perhaps, if this mine, in which her father had a share, should turn out well, she would not be so bad a match, even in point of money; but to this he did not attach much importance.  He was indulging in a dream, which he fondly imagined was unselfish and honorable to himself in a high degree.  Quite a virtuous glow seemed to mingle with his ardent passion; though the fact simply was (as it often is in such cases) that, for a personal gratification, he was prepared