The master of Monks Barton had reproved Will through long pages, cited Scripture at him, displayed his errors in a grim procession, then praised him for his prompt and manly conduct under the present catastrophe, declared that his character had much developed of recent years, and concluded by offering him five-and-thirty shillings a week at Monks Barton, with the only stipulation that himself, his wife, and the children should dwell at the farm.

Praise, of which he had received little enough for many years, was pure honey to Will.  From the extremity of gloom and from a dark and settled enmity towards Mr. Lyddon, he passed quicker than thought to an opposite condition of mind.

“’Tis a fairy story—­awnly true!” he said to himself as he swept along.

Will came near choking when he thought of the miller.  Here was a man that believed in him!  Newtake tumbled clean out of his mind before this revelation of Mr. Lyddon’s trust and confidence.  He was full to the brainpan with Monks Barton.  The name rang in his ears.  Before he reached Chagford he had planned innumerable schemes for developing the valley farm, for improving, saving, increasing possibilities in a hundred directions.  He pictured himself putting money into the miller’s pocket.  He determined to bring that about if he had to work four-and-twenty hours a day to do it.  He almost wished some profound peril would threaten his father-in-law, that he, at the cost of half his life, if need be, might rescue him and so pay a little of this great debt.  Ship, taking the cue from his master, as a dog will, leapt and barked before him.  In the valley below, Phoebe wept on Mrs. Blanchard’s bosom, and Chris said hard things of those in authority at Monks Barton; up aloft at Newtake, shillings rather than pounds changed hands and many a poor lot found no purchaser.

Passing by a gate beneath the great hill of Middledown, Will saw two sportsmen with a keeper and a brace of terriers, emerge from the wild land above.  They were come from rabbit shooting, as the attendant’s heavy bag testified.  They faced him as he passed, and, recognising John Grimbal, Will did not look at his companion.  At rest with the world just then, happy and contented to a degree he had not reached for years, the young farmer was in such amiable mood that he had given the devil “good day” on slightest provocation.  Now he was carried out of himself, and spoke upon a joyous inclination of the moment.

“Marnin’ to ’e, Jan Grimbal!  Glad to hear tell as your greyhound winned the cup down to Newton coursing.”

The other was surprised into a sort of grunt; then, as Will moved rapidly out of earshot, Grimbal’s companion addressed him.  It was Major Tremayne; and now the soldier regarded Blanchard’s vanishing figure with evident amazement, then spoke.

“By Jove!  Tom Newcombe, by all that’s wonderful,” he said.

CHAPTER VI