“I reckon,” said Mrs. Hooper with meaning, “William will soon be lookin’ round for another wife.”

’Lizabeth went quietly on with her skimming.

It was just five months after this, on a warm June morning, that William rode down the valley, and, dismounting by Farmer Hooper’s, hitched his bridle over the garden gate, and entered.  ’Lizabeth was in the garden; he could see her print sun-bonnet moving between the rows of peas.  She turned as he approached, dropped a pod into her basket, and held out her hand.

“Good day, William.”  Her voice was quite friendly.

William had something to say, and ’Lizabeth quickly guessed what it was.

“I thought I’d drop in an’ see how you was gettin’ on; for it’s main lonely up at Compton Burrows since the missus was took.”

“I daresay.”

“An’ I’d a matter on my mind to tell you,” he pursued, encouraged to find she harboured no malice.  “It’s troubled me, since, that way you burnt the will, an’ us turnin’ you out; for in a way the place belonged to you.  The old man meant it, anyhow.”

“Well,” said ’Lizabeth, setting down her basket, and looking him full in the eyes.

“Well, I reckon we might set matters square, you an’ me, ’Lizabeth, by marryin’ an’ settlin’ down comfortable.  I’ve no children to pester you, an’ you’re young yet to be givin’ up thoughts o’ marriage.  What do ’ee say, cousin?”

’Lizabeth picked a full pod from the bush beside her, and began shelling the peas, one by one, into her hand.  Her face was cool and contemplative.

“’Tis eight years ago, William, since last you asked me.  Ain’t that so?” she asked absently.

“Come, Cousin, let bygones be, and tell me; shall it be, my dear?”

“No, William,” she answered; “’tis too late an hour to ask me now.  I thank you, but it can’t be.”  She passed the peas slowly to and fro in her fingers.

“But why, ‘Lizabeth?” he urged; “you was fond o’ me once.  Come, girl, don’t stand in your own light through a hit o’ pique.”

“It’s not that,” she explained; “it’s that I’ve found myself out—­an’ you.  You’ve humbled my pride too sorely.”

“You’re thinking o’ Maria.”

“Partly, maybe; but it don’t become us to talk o’ one that’s dead.  You’ve got my answer, William, and don’t ask me again.  I loved you once, but now I’m only weary when I think o’t.  You wouldn’t understand me if I tried to tell you.”

She held out her hand.  William took it.

“You’re a great fool, ’Lizabeth.”

“Good-bye, William.”

She took up her basket and walked slowly back to the house; William watched her for a moment or two, swore, and returned to his horse.  He did not ride home wards, but down the valley, where he spent the day at the “Compton Arms.”  When he returned home, which was not before midnight, he was boisterously drunk.

Now it so happened that when William dismounted at the gate Mrs. Hooper had spied him from her bedroom window, and, guessing his errand, had stolen down on the other side of the garden wall parallel with which the peas were planted.  Thus sheltered, she contrived to hear every word of the foregoing conversation, and repeated it to her good man that very night.