“Be o’ good cheer,” he said, “though I caan’t offer ’e much prospects of easy life in double harness wi’ Will Blanchard.  But, as I used to say in my church-gwaine days, ‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.’  Be it as ’twill, I dare say theer ‘s many peaceful years o’ calm, black-wearin’ widowhood afore ’e yet, for chaps like him do shorten theer days a deal by such a tearin’, high-coloured, passionate way of life.”

Mr. Blee opened the gate, the maids waved their handkerchiefs and wept, and not far distant, as he heard the vehicle containing his daughter depart, Mr. Lyddon would have given half that he had to recall the spoken word.  Phoebe once gone, his anger vanished and his love for her won on him like sunshine after storm.  Angry, indeed, he still was, but with himself.

For Phoebe, curiosity and love dried her tears as she passed upward towards the Moor.  Then, the wild land reached, she put her head out of the window and saw Newtake beech trees in the distance.  Already the foliage of them seemed a little tattered and thin, and their meagreness of vesture and solitary appearance depressed the spectator again before she arrived at them.

But the gate, thrown widely open, was reached at last, and there stood Will and Mrs. Blanchard, Chris, Ted Chown, and the great bobtailed sheep-dog, “Ship,” to welcome her.  With much emotion poor Phoebe alighted, tottered and fell into the bear-hug of her husband, while the women also kissed her and murmured over her in their sweet, broad Devon tongue.  Then something made Will laugh, and his merriment struck the right note; but Ship fell foul of Phoebe’s little terrier and there was a growl, then a yelp and a scuffling, dusty battle amid frightened fowls, whose protests added to the tumult.  Upon this conflict descended Will’s sapling with sounding thuds administered impartially, and from the skirmish the smaller beast emerged lame and crying, while the sheep-dog licked the blood off his nose and went to heel with a red light glimmering through his pale blue eyes.

Happiness returned indoors and Phoebe, all blushes and praises, inspected her new home and the preparations made within it for her pleasure.  Perhaps she simulated more joy than the moment brought, for such a day, dreamed of through years, was sure in its realisation to prove something of an anti-climax after the cruel nature of all such events.  Despite Chris and her ceaseless efforts to keep joy at the flood, a listlessness stole over the little party as the day wore on.  Phoebe found her voice not to be relied upon and felt herself drifting into that state between laughter and tears which craves solitude for its exhibition.  The cows came home to be milked, and there seemed but few of them after the great procession at Monks Barton.  Yet Will demanded her separate praises for each beast.  In the little garden he had made, budding flowers, untimely transplanted, hung their heads.  But she admired with extravagant adjectives, and picked a blossom