“You mind your awn business, Martin,” said Mr. Lyddon, with nods and winks.  “No, they ban’t gwaine to starve, but my readin’ of Will’s carater has got to be worked out.  Tribulation’s what he needs to sweeten him, same as winter sweetens sloes; an’ ’t is tribulation I mean him to have.  If Phoebe’s self caan’t change me or hurry me ’t is odds you won’t.  Theer’s a darter for ’e!  My Phoebe.  She’ll often put in a whole week along o’ me still.  You mind this:  if it’s grawn true an’ thrawn true from the plantin’, a darter’s love for a faither lasts longer ’n any mortal love at all as I can hear tell of.  It don’t wear out wi’ marriage, neither, as I’ve found, thank God.  Phoebe rises above auld age and the ugliness an’ weakness an’ bad temper of auld age.  Even a poor, doddering ancient such as I shall be in a few years won’t weary her; she’ll look back’ards with butivul clear eyes, an’ won’t forget.  She’ll see—­not awnly a cracked, shrivelled auld man grizzling an’ grumbling in the chimbley corner, but what the man was wance—­a faither, strong an’ lusty, as dandled her, an’ worked for, an’ loved her with all his heart in the days of his bygone manhood.  Ess, my Phoebe’s all that; an’ she comes here wi’ the child; an’ it pleases me, for rightly onderstood, childern be a gert keeper-off of age.”

“I’m sure she’s a good daughter to you, Miller.  And Will?”

“Doan’t you fret.  We’ve worked it out in our minds—­me an’ Billy; an’ if two auld blids like us can’t hatch a bit o’ wisdom, what brains is worth anything?  We’m gwaine to purify the awdacious young chap ’so as by fire,’ in holy phrase.”

“You’re dealing with a curious temperament.”

“I’m dealing with a damned fule,” said Mr. Lyddon frankly; “but theer’s fules an’ fules, an’ this partickler wan’s grawed dear to me in some ways despite myself.  ’T is Phoebe’s done it at bottom I s’pose.  The man’s so full o’ life an’ hope.  Enough energy in un for ten men; an’ enough folly for twenty.  Yet he’ve a gude heart an’ never lied in’s life to my knawledge.”

“That’s to give him praise, and high praise.  How’s his sister?  I hear she’s returned after all.”

“Ess—­naughty twoad of a gal—­runned arter the gypsies!  But she’m sobered now.  Funny to think her mother, as seemed like a woman robbed of her right hand when Chris went, an’ beginned to graw into the sere onusual quick for a widow, took new life as soon as her gal comed back.  Just shaws what strength lies in a darter, as I tell ’e.”

The old man’s garrulity gained upon him, and though Martin much desired to be gone, he had not the heart to hasten.

“A darter’s the thing an’—­but’t is a secret yet—­awnly you’ll see what you’ll see.  Coourse Billy’s very well for gathered wisdom and high conversation ’bout the world to come; but he ban’t like a woman round the house, an’ for all his ripe larnin’ he’ll strike fire sometimes—­mostly when I gives him a bad beating at ‘Oaks’ of a evenin’.  Then he’m so acid as auld rhubarb, an’ dots off to his bed wi’out a ‘gude-night.’”