“He’s got me.”

“Ess, an’ he’m mouldin’ you to his awn vain pride an’ wrong ways o’ thinking.  If you could lead un right, ’t would be a better wife’s paart.”

“He’m wiser’n me, an’ stronger.  Ban’t my place to think against him.  Us’ll go our ways, childern tu, an’ turn our backs ’pon this desert.  I hate the plaace now, same as Will.”

Chris here interrupted Phoebe and called her from the other room.

“Wheer’s the paper an’ ink to?  I be setting out the things against Will comes in.  He axed for ’em to be ready, ‘cause theer’s a deal o’ penmanship afore him to-night.  An’ wheer’s that li’l dictionary what I gived un years ago?  I lay he’ll want it.”

CHAPTER V

TWO MIGHTY SURPRISES

Will returned from survey of his tribulation.  Hope was dead for the moment, and death of hope in a man of Blanchard’s character proved painful.  The writing materials distracted his mind.  Beginning without interest, his composition speedily absorbed him; and before the task was half completed, he already pictured it set out in great black or red print upon conspicuous places.

“I reckon it’ll make some of ’em stare to see the scholar I am, anyways,” he reflected.

Through the hours of night he wrote and re-wrote.  His pen scratched along, echoed by an exactly similar sound from the wainscots, where mice nibbled in the silence.  Anon, from the debris of his composition, a complete work took shape; and when Phoebe awoke at three o’clock, discovered her husband was still absent, and sought him hurriedly, she found the inventory completed and Will just fastening its pages together with a piece of string.  He was wide awake and in a particularly happy humour.

“Ban’t you never comin’ to bed?  ’T is most marnin’,” she said.

“Just comin’.  What a job!  Look here—­twelve pages.  I be surprised myself to think how blamed well I’ve got through wi’ it.  You doan’t knaw what you can do till you try.  I used to wonder at Clem’s cleverness wi’ a pen; but I be purty near so handy myself an’ never guessed it!”

“I’m sure you’ve made a braave job of it.  I’ll read it fust thing to-morrow.”

“You shall hear it now.”

“Not now, Will; ‘t is so late an’ I’m three paarts asleep.  Come to bed, dearie.”

“Oh—­if you doan’t care—­if it’s nought to you that I’ve sit up all night slavin’ for our gude—­”

“Then I’ll hear it now.  Coourse I knaw ‘t is fine readin’.  Awnly I thought you’d be weary.”

“Sit here an’ put your toes to the heat.”

He set Phoebe in the chimney corner, wrapped his coat round her, and threw more turf on the fire.

“Now you’m vitty; an’ if theer’s anything left out, tell me.”

“I lay, wi’ your memory, you’ve forgot little enough.”

“I lay I haven’t.  All’s here; an’ ‘t is a gert wonder what a lot o’ gude things us have got.  They did ought to fetch a couple o’ hunderd pound at least, if the sale’s carried out proper.”