“A nice li’l bwoy, tu, an’ fond of me; an’ you caan’t say he’m a love-cheel, knawin’ nothin’ ’bout him.”

“Love-cheel or changeling, ’tis all wan.  Have’e ever thought ’twas coorious the way Blanchard comed by un?”

“Certainly ’twas—­terrible coorious.”

“You never doubted it?”

“Why for should I?  Will’s truthful as light, whatever else he may be.”

“You believe as he went ‘pon the Moor an’ found that bwoy in a roundy-poundy under the gloamin’?”

“Ess, I do.”

“Have’e ever looked at the laddie close?”

“Oftentimes—­so like Will as two peas.”

“Theer ’tis!  The picter of Will!  How do’e read that?”

“Never tried to.  An accident, no more.”

“A damn queer accident, if you ax me.  Burnish it all!  You doan’t see yet, such a genius of a man as you tu!  Why, Will Blanchard’s the faither of the li’l twoad!  You’ve awnly got to know the laws of nature an’ such-like to swear to it.  The way he walks an’ holds his head, his curls, his fashion of lording it awver the birds an’ beasts, the sudden laugh of un—­he’s Will’s son, for a thousand pound, an’ his mother’s alive, like as not.”

“No mother would have gived up a child that way.”

“’Zactly so!  Onless she gived it to the faither!” said Billy triumphantly.

Mr. Lyddon reflected and showed an evident disposition to scoff at the whole story.

“‘Tis stuff an’ rubbish!” he said.  “You might as well find a mare’s nest t’other side an’ say ’twas Will’s sister’s child.  ’Tis almost so like her as him, an’ got her brown eyes in the bargain.”

“God forbid!” answered Billy, in horror.  “That’s flat libel, an’ I’d be the last to voice any such thing for money.  If a man gets a cheel wrong side the blanket ‘tis just a passing sarcumstance, an’ not to be took too serious.  Half-a-crown a week is its awn punishment like.  But if a gal do, ‘tis destruction to the end of the chapter, an’ shame everlasting in the world to come, by all accounts.  You didn’t ought to think o’ such things, Miller,—­takin’ a pure, gude maiden’s carater like that.  Surprised at ’e!”

“’Tis just as mad a thought wan way as t’other, and if you’m surprised so be I. To be a tale-bearer at your time o’ life!”

“That gormed Blanchard’s bewitched ’e from fust to last!” burst out Billy.  “If a angel from heaven comed down-long and tawld ’e the truth ’bout un, you wouldn’t b’lieve.  God stiffen it!  You make me mad!  You’d stand ‘pon your head an’ waggle your auld legs in the air for un if he axed ’e.”

“I’ll speak to him straight an’ take his word for it.  If it’s true, he ’m wickedly to blame, I knaw that.”

“I was thinkin’ of your darter.  ’Tis black thoughts have kept her waking since this reached her ears.”

“Did you tell her what people were sayin’?  I warrant you did!”

“You’m wrong then.  No such thing.  I may have just heaved a sigh when I seed the bwoy playin’ in front of her, an’ looked at Blanchard, an’ shook my head, or some such gentle hint as that.  But no more.”