possessions remained in their usual places.  With none to see, the woman’s eye moistened; then she sat down on Will’s bed and her heart grew weak for one brief moment as she pictured him fighting the battle.  It hurt her a little that he had told Clement Hicks his intention and hid it from his mother.  Yet as a son, at least, he had never failed.  However, all affairs of life were a matter of waiting, more or less, she told herself; and patience was easier to Damaris Blanchard than to most people.  Under her highest uneasiness, maternal pride throbbed at thought of the manly independence indicated by her son’s action.  She returned to the duties of the day, but found herself restless, while continually admonishing Chris not to be so.  Her thoughts drifted to Monks Barton and Will’s meeting with his sweetheart’s father.  Presently, when her daughter went up to the village, Mrs. Blanchard put off her apron, donned the cotton sunbonnet that she always wore from choice, and walked over to see Mr. Lyddon.  They were old friends, and presently Damaris listened sedately to the miller without taking offence at his directness of speech.  He told the story of his decision and Will’s final reply, while she nodded and even smiled once or twice in the course of the narrative.

“You was both right, I reckon,” she said placidly, looking into Mr. Lyddon’s face.  “You was wise to mistrust, not knawin’ what’s at the root of him; and he, being as he is, was in the right to tell ’e the race goes to the young.  Wheer two hearts is bent on joining, ’tis join they will—­if both keeps of a mind long enough.”

“That’s it, Damaris Blanchard; who’s gwaine to b’lieve that a bwoy an’ gal, like Will an’ Phoebe, do knaw theer minds?  Mark me, they’ll both chaange sweethearts a score of times yet ’fore they come to mate.”

“Caan’t speak for your darter, Lyddon; but I knaw my son.  A masterful bwoy, like his faither before him, wild sometimes an’ wayward tu, but not with women-folk.  His faither loved in wan plaace awnly.  He’ll be true to your cheel whatever betides, or I’m a fule.”

“What’s the use of that if he ban’t true to himself?  No, no, I caan’t see a happy ending to the tale however you look at it.  Wish I could.  I fear’t was a ugly star twinkled awver his birthplace, ma’am.”

“’Twas all the stars of heaven, Miller,” said the mother, frankly, “for he was born in my husband’s caravan in the auld days.  We was camped up on the Moor, drawn into one of them roundy-poundies o’ grey granite stones set up by Phoenicians at the beginning of the world.  Ess fay, a braave shiny night, wi’ the li’l windows thrawed open to give me air.  An’ ’pon Will’s come-of-age birthday, last month, if us didn’t all drive up theer an’ light a fire an’ drink a dish of tea in the identical spot!  ‘Tis out Newtake’ way.”

“Like a story-book.”

“’Twas Clem Hicks, his thought, being a fanciful man.  But I’ll bid you gude-marnin’ now.  Awnly mind this, as between friends and without a spark of malice:  Will Blanchard means to marry your maid, sure as you’m born, if awnly she keeps strong for him.  It rests with her, Miller, not you.”