“You’re a bigger fool than even I thought, Blanchard.”

Will’s eye flashed.

“You ’m a tidy judge of a fule, I grant,” he said angrily, “or should be.  But you ’m awnly wan more against me.  You’ll see you ’m wrong like the rest.  Anyway, you’ve got to mind what you’ve sweared.  An’ when mother an’ Chris ax ’e wheer I be, I’ll thank you to say I’m out in the world doin’ braave, an’ no more.”

“As you like.  It ’s idle, I know, trying to make you change your mind.”

A thin voice from an upper chamber of the cottage here interrupted their colloquy, and the mother of the bee-keeper reminded him that he was due early on the following day at Okehampton with honey, and that he ought long since to be asleep.

“If that’s Will Blanchard,” she concluded, “tell un to be off home to bed.  What ‘s the wisdom o’ turning night hours into day like this here?”

“All right, mother,” shouted Will.  “Gude-night to ’e.  I be off this moment.”

Then bidding his friend farewell, he departed.

“Doan’t think twice o’ what I said a minute since.  I was hot ’cause you couldn’t see no wisdom in my plan.  But that’s the way of folks.  They belittle a chap’s best thoughts and acts till the time comes for luck to turn an’ bring the fruit; then them as scoffed be the first to turn round smilin’ an’ handshaking and sayin’, ’What did us say?  Didn’t us tell ‘e so from the very beginning?’”

Away went the youthful water-keeper, inspired with the prospect of his contemplated flight.  He strode home at a rapid pace, to find all lights out and the household in bed.  Then he drank half a pint of cider, ate some bread and cheese, and set about a letter to Phoebe.

A little desk on a side-table, the common property of himself, his mother, and sister, was soon opened, and materials found.  Then, in his own uncial characters, that always tended hopefully upward, and thus left a triangle of untouched paper at the bottom of every sheet, Will wrote a letter of two folios, or eight complete pages.  In this he repeated the points of his conversation with Phoebe’s father, told her to be patient, and announced that, satisfied of her unfailing love and steadfastness through all, he was about to pass into the wider world, and carve his way to prosperity and fortune.  He hid particulars from her, but mentioned that Clement Hicks would forward any communications.  Finally he bid her keep a stout heart and live contented in the certainty of ultimate happiness.  He also advised Phoebe to forgive her father.  “I have already done it, honor bright,” he wrote; “’t is a wise man’s part to bear no malice, especially against an old grey body whose judgment ’pears to be gone bad for some reason.”  He also assured Phoebe that he was hers until death should separate them; in a postscript he desired her to break his departure softly to his mother if opportunity to do so occurred; and, finally, he was not ashamed