The cheerful goddess who had brought Fritzing and his Princess safely over from Kunitz was certainly standing by them well.  She it was who had driven Priscilla up on to the heath and into the acquaintance of Augustus Shuttleworth, without whom a cottage in Symford would have been for ever unattainable.  She it was who had sent the Morrisons, father and son, to drive Priscilla from the churchyard before Fritzing had joined her, without which driving she would never have met Augustus.  She it was who had used the trifling circumstance of a mislaid sermon-book to take the vicar and Robin into the church at an unaccustomed time, without which sermon-book they would never have met Priscilla in the churchyard and driven her out of it.  Thus are all our doings ruled by Chance; and it is a pleasant pastime for an idle hour to trace back big events to their original and sometimes absurd beginnings.  For myself I know that the larger lines of my life were laid down once for all by—­but what has this to do with Priscilla?  Thus, I say, are all our doings ruled by Chance, who loves to use small means for the working of great wonders.  And as for the gay goddess’s ugly sister, the lady of the shifty eye and lowering brow called variously Misfortune and Ill Luck, she uses the same tools exactly in her hammering out of lives, meanly taking little follies and little weaknesses, so little and so amiable at first as hardly to be distinguished from little virtues, and with them building up a mighty mass that shall at last come down and crush our souls.  Of the crushing of souls, however, my story does not yet treat, and I will not linger round subjects so awful.  We who are nestling for the moment like Priscilla beneath the warm wing of Good Fortune can dare to make what the children call a face at her grey sister as she limps scowling past.  Shall we not too one day in our turn feel her claws?  Let us when we do at least not wince; and he who feeling them can still make a face and laugh, shall be as the prince of the fairy tales, transforming the sour hag by his courage into a bright reward, striking his very griefs into a shining shower of blessing.

From this brief excursion into the realm of barren musings, whither I love above all things to wander and whence I have continually to fetch myself back again by force, I will return to the story.

At Tussie’s suggestion when the business part of their talk was over—­and it took exactly five minutes for Tussie to sell and Fritzing to buy the cottages, five minutes of the frothiest business talk ever talked, so profound was the ignorance of both parties as to what most people demand of cottages—­Fritzing drove to Minehead in the postmistress’s son’s two-wheeled cart in order to purchase suitable furniture and bring back persons who would paper and paint.  Minehead lies about twenty miles to the north of Symford, so Fritzing could not be back before evening.  By the time he was back, promised Tussie, the shoemaker and Mrs. Shaw should be cleared out and put into a place so much better according to their views that they would probably make it vocal with their praises.