Her voice fluttered like bells in a wild wind; she trembled on the brink of tears; and he saw by little convulsive movements and the lump in her round throat that she could not yet regard her lot with patience.  She brought out her pocket-handkerchief again, and the man noticed it was all wet and rolled into a ball.

“Life’s a blank thing at lovers’ parting,” he said; “but time rubs the rough edges off matters that fret our minds the worst.  Days and nights, and plenty of ’em, are the best cure for all ills.”

“An’ the best cure for life tu!  The awnly cure.  Think of years an’ years without him.  Yesterday us met up in Pixies’ Parlour yonder, an’ I was peart an’ proud as need be; to-day he’s gone, and I feel auld and wisht and all full of weary wonder how I’m gwaine to fare and if I’llever see him again.  ’T is cruel—­bitter cruel for me.”

That she could thus pity herself so soon argued a mind incapable of harbouring great sorrow for many years; and the man at her side, without appreciating this fact, yet, by a sort of intuition, suspected that Phoebe’s grief, perhaps even her steadfastness of purpose, would suffer diminution before very great lapse of time.  Without knowing why, he hoped it might be so.  Her voice fell melodiously upon an ear long tuned to the whine of native women.  It came from the lungs, was full and sweet, with a shy suddenness about it, like the cooing of wood doves.  She half slipped at a stile, and he put out his hand and touched her waist and felt his heart throb.  But Phoebe’s eyes rarely met her new friend’s.  The girl looked with troubled brows ahead into the future, while she walked beside him; and he, upon her left hand, saw only the soft cheek, the pouting lips, and the dimples that came and went.  Sometimes she looked up, however, and Grimbal noted how the flutter of past tears shook her round young breast, marked the spring of her step, the freedom of her gait, and the trim turn of her feet and ankles.  After the flat-footed Kaffir girls, Phoebe’s instep had a right noble arch in his estimation.

“To think that I, as never wronged faither in thought or deed, should be treated so hard!  I’ve been all the world to him since mother died, for he’s said as much to many; yet he’s risen up an’ done this, contrary to justice and right and Scripture, tu.”

“You must be patient, Phoebe, and respect his age, and let the matter rest till the time grows ripe.  I can’t advise you better than that.”

“‘Patient!’ My life’s empty, I tell ’e—­empty, hollow, tasteless wi’out my Will.”

“Well, well, we’ll see.  I’m going to build a big red-brick house presently, and buy land, and make a bit of a stir in my small way.  You’ve a pretty fancy in such things, I’ll bet a dollar.  You shall give me a helping hand—­eh?  You must tell me best way of setting up house.  And you might help me as to furniture and suchlike if you had time for it.  Will you, for an old friend?”