“Why, so ’t is; but I’ve weighed the subject in my mind for years and years, an ’t wasn’t till Mary Coomstock comed to be widowed that I thought I’d found the woman at last.  ‘T was lookin’ tremendous high, I knaw, but theer ’t is; she’ll have me.  She ’m no young giglet neither, as would lead me a devil’s dance, but a pusson in full blooth with ripe mind.”

“She drinks.  I doan’t want to hurt your feelings; but everybody says it is so,” declared the miller.

“What everybody sez, nobody did ought to believe,” returned Mr. Blee stoutly.  “She ’m a gude, lonely sawl, as wants a man round the house to keep off her relations, same as us has a dog to keep down varmints in general.  Theer ‘s the Hickses, an’ Chowns, an’ Coomstocks all a-stickin’ up theer tails an’ a-purrin’ an’ a-rubbin’ theerselves against the door-posts of the plaace like cats what smells feesh.  I won’t have none of it.  I’ll dwell along wi’ she an’ play a husband’s part, an’ comfort the decline of her like a man, I warn ’e.”

“Why, Mrs. Coomstock ’s not so auld as all that, Billy,” said Phoebe.  “Chris has often told me she’s only sixty-two or three.”

But he shook his head.

“Ban’t a subject for a loving man to say much on, awnly truth ’s truth.  I seed it written in the Coomstock Bible wan day.  Fifty-five she were when she married first.  Well, ban’t in reason she twald the naked truth ‘bout it, an’ who’d blame her on such a delicate point?  No, I’d judge her as near my awn age as possible; an’ to speak truth, not so well preserved as what I be.”

“How’s Monks Barton gwaine to fare without ’e, Blee?” whined the miller.

“As to that, be gormed if I knaw how I’ll fare wi’out the farm.  But love—­well, theer ’t is.  Theer ’s money to it, I knaw, but what do that signify?  Nothin’ to me.  You’ll see me frequent as I ride here an’ theer—­horse, saddle, stirrups, an’ all complete; though God He knaws wheer my knees’ll go when my boots be fixed in stirrups.  But a man must use ’em if theer ’s the dignity of money to be kept up.  ’T is just wan of them oncomfortable things riches brings with it.”

While Miller Lyddon still argued with Billy against the step he now designed, there arrived from Chagford the stout Mr. Chappie, with his mouth full of news.

“More weddin’s,” he said.  “I comed down-long to tell ’e, lest you shouldn’t knaw till to-morrow an’ so fall behind the times.  Widow Coomstock ’s thrawed up the sponge and gived herself to that importuneous auld Lezzard.  To think o’ such a Methuselah as him—­aulder than the century—­fillin’ the eye o’ that full-bodied—­”

“It’s a black lie—­blacker ‘n hell—­an’ if’t was anybody but you brought the news I’d hit un awver the jaw!” burst out Mr. Blee, in a fury.

“He tawld me hisself.  He’s tellin’ everybody hisself.  It comed to a climax to-day.  The auld bird’s hoppin’ all awver the village so proud as a jackdaw as have stole a shiny button.  He’m bustin’ wi’ it in fact.”