to do he did with his might; and the fact that his head, as often as not, prompted his hand to the wrong thing escaped him.  He regarded his life as exemplary, felt that he was doing all that might in reason be demanded, and confidently looked towards Providence to do the rest.  To find Providence unwilling to help him brought a wave of riotous indignation through his mind on each occasion of making that discovery.  These waves, sweeping at irregular intervals over Will, left the mark of their high tides, and his mind, now swinging like a pendulum before this last buffet dealt by Fate in semblance of the Duchy’s man, plunged him into a huge discontent with all things.  He was ripe for mischief and would have quarrelled with his shadow; but he did worse—­he quarrelled with his mother.

She visited him that afternoon, viewed his shattered scheme, and listened as Will poured the great outrage upon her ear.  Coming up at his express invitation to learn the secret, which he had kept from her that her joy might be the greater, Mrs. Blanchard only arrived in time to see his disappointment.  She knew the Duchy for a bad enemy, and perhaps at the bottom of her conservative heart felt no particular delight at the spectacle of Newtake enlarging its borders.  She therefore held that everything was for the best, and counselled patience; whereupon her son, with a month’s wasted toil staring him in the face, rebelled and took her unconcerned demeanour ill.  Damaris also brought a letter from Phoebe, and this added fuel to the flame.  Will dwelt upon his wife’s absence bitterly.

“Job’s self never suffered that, for I read ’bout what he went through awnly last night, for somethin’ to kill an hour in the evenin’.  An’ I won’t suffer it.  It’s contrary to nature, an’ if Phoebe ban’t here come winter I’ll go down an’ bring her, willy-nilly.”

“Time’ll pass soon enough, my son.  Next summer will be here quick.  Then her’ll have grawin’ corn to look at and fine crops risin’, an’ more things feedin’ on the Moor in sight of her eyes.  You see, upland farms do look a little thin to them who have lived all their time in the fatness of the valleys.”

“If I was bidin’ in one of them stone roundy-poundies, with nothin’ but a dog-kennel for a home, she ought to be shoulder to shoulder wi’ me.  Did you leave my faither cause other people didn’t love un?”

“That was differ’nt.  Theer s Miller Lyddon.  I could much wish you seed more of him an’ let un come by a better ’pinion of ’e.  ’T s awnly worldly wisdom, true; but—­”

“I’m sick to death o’ worldly wisdom!  What’s it done for me?  I stand to work nine an’ ten hour a day, an’ not wi’out my share o’ worldly wisdom, neither.  Then I’m played with an’ left to whistle, I ban’t gwaine to think so much, I tell ‘e.  It awnly hurts a man’s head, an’ keeps him wakin’ o’ nights.  Life’s guess-work, by the looks of it, an’ a fule’s so like to draw a prize as the wisest.”