Sarah was pleased, and added a second penny from her reticule.  The boy spat on it for luck, slipped it into his breeches pocket, and went on his way skipping.

They stood still and looked after him for some moments, out of pure pleasure in his good humour; then descended among the orchards to the village.  Half-way up the street stood the inn, the Flowing Source, with whitewashed front and fuchsia-trees that reached to the first-floor windows; and before it a well enclosed with a round stone wall, over which the toadflax spread in a tangle.  Around the well, in the sunshine, were set a dozen or more small tables, covered with white cloths, and two score at least of young people eating bread and cream and laughing.  The landlady, a broad woman in a blue print gown, and large apron, came forward.

“Why, Miss Sarah, I’d nigh ’pon given you up.  Your table’s been spread this hour, an’ at last I was forced to ask some o’ the young folks if you was dead or no.”

“Why should I be dead more than another?”

“Well, well—­in the midst o’ life, we’re told.  ‘Tisn’ only the ripe apples that the wind scatters.  He that comes by your side to-day is but twin-brother to him that came wi’ you the first time I mind ’ee, seemin’ but yesterday.  Eh, Miss Sarah, but I envied ‘ee then, sittin’ wi’ hand in hand, an’ but one bite taken out o’ your bread an’ cream; but I was just husband-high myself i’ those days, an’ couldn’t make the men believe it.”

“Mary Ann Jacobs,” Miss Sarah broke out, “if ’twas not for the quality of your cream, I’d go a-mayin’ elsewhere, for I can truly say I hate your way of talkin’ from the bottom of my soul.”

“Sarah,” said John, wiping his mouth as he finished his bread and cream, “I’m a glum man, as you well know; an’ why Providence drowned poor Jim, when it might have taken his twin image that hadn’ half his mouth—­speech, is past findin’ out.  But ’tis generally allowed that the grip o’ my hand is uncommon like what Jim’s used to be; an’ when I gets home to-night, the first thing my old woman’ll be sure to ask is ’Did ‘ee give Sarah poor Jim’s hand-clasp?’—­an’ what to say I shan’t know, unless you honours me so far.”

“’Tis uncommon good of Maria,” said the woman simply, and stole her thin hand into his horny palm.  She had done so, in answer to the same speech, more than twenty times.

“Not at all,” said John.

His fingers closed over hers, and rested so.  All but a few of the mayers had risen from the table, and were romping and chasing each other back to the boats, for the majority were shop-girls and apprentices, and must be back in time for business.  But Miss Sarah was in no hurry.

“Not yet,” she entreated, as John’s grasp began to relax.  He tightened it again and waited, while she leant back, breathing short, with half-closed eyes.

At length she said he might release her.

“I’m sure ’tis uncommon kind of Maria,” she repeated.