and set it in her dress.  Anon the sun set, with no soft lights and shadows amidst the valley trees she knew, when sunset and twilight played hide-and-seek beside the river, but slowly, solemnly, in hard, clean, illimitable glory upon horizons of granite and heather.  The peat glowed as though it were red-hot, and night brooded on the eastern face of every hill.  Only a jangling bell broke the startling stillness then, and, through long weeks afterwards the girl yearned for the song of the river, as one who has long slept by another’s side sadly yearns for the sound of their breathing by night, when they are taken away.  Phoebe had little imagination, but she guessed already that the life before her must differ widely from that spent under her father’s roof.  Despite the sunshine of the time and the real joy of being united to her husband at last, she saw on every side more evidences of practical life than she had before anticipated.  But these braced her rather than not, and she told herself truly that the sadness at bottom of her heart just then was wholly begotten of the past and her departure from home.  Deep unrest came upon her as she walked with her husband and listened to his glad voice.  She longed greatly to be alone with him that her heart might be relieved.  She wanted his arms round her; she wanted to cry and let him kiss the tears away.

Damaris Blanchard very fully understood much that was passing through her daugher-in-law’s mind, and she hastened her departure after an early cup of tea.  She took a last look at all the good things she had provided for the wedding supper—­a meal she declared must not be shared with Will and Phoebe—­and so made ready to depart.  It was then her turn, and her bosom throbbed with just one dumb, fleeting shadow of fear that found words before her second thought had time to suppress them.

“You won’t love me no less, eh, Will?” she whispered, holding his hand between hers; and he saw her grey eyes almost frightened in the gloaming.

“My God, no!  No, mother; a man must have a dirty li’l heart in un if it ban’t big enough to hold mother an’ wife.”

She gripped his hand tighter.

“Ess fay, I knaw, I knaw; but doan’t ’e put your mother first now,—­ban’t nature.  God bless an’ keep the both of ’e.  ’Twill allus be my prayer.”

The cart rattled away, Chris driving, and such silence as Phoebe had never known held the darkening land.  She noted a yellow star against the sombre ridge of the world, felt Will’s arm round her and turned to him, seeking that comfort and support her nature cried out for.

Infinitely tender and loving was her husband then, and jubilant, too, at first; but a little later, when Chown had been packed off to his own apartment, with not a few delicacies he had never bargained for, the conversation flagged and the banquet also.