“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 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.”