face, and his habitual expression of sulkiness which formerly belied him, now increased and more nearly reflected the reigning temperament of Blanchard’s mind.  His nerves were on the rack and he grew sullen and fretful.  A dreary expression gained upon his features, an expression sad as a winter twilight brushed with rain.  To Phoebe he seldom spoke of the matter, and she soon abandoned further attempts to intrude upon his heart though her own was breaking for him.  Billy Blee and the farm hands were Will’s safety-valve.  One moment he showered hard and bitter words; the next, at sight of some ploughboy’s tears or older man’s reasonable anger, Will instantly relented and expressed his sorrow.  The dullest among them grew in time to discern matters were amiss with him, for his tormented mind began to affect his actions and disorder the progress of his life.  At times he worked laboriously and did much with his own hands that might have been left to others; but his energy was displayed in a manner fitful and spasmodic; occasionally he would vanish altogether for four-and-twenty hours or more; and none knew when he might appear or disappear.

It happened on New Year’s Eve that a varied company assembled at the “Green Man” according to ancient custom.  Here were Inspector Chown, Mr. Chapple, Mr. Blee, Charles Coomstock, with many others; and the assembly was further enriched by the presence of the bell-ringers.  Their services would be demanded presently to toll out the old year, to welcome with joyful peal the new; and they assembled here until closing time that they might enjoy a pint of the extra strong liquor a prosperous publican provided for his customers at this season.

The talk was of Blanchard, and Mr. Blee, provided with a theme which always challenged his most forcible diction, discussed Will freely and without prejudice.

“I ’most goes in fear of my life, I tell ’e; but thank God ’t is the beginning of the end.  He’ll spread his wings afore spring and be off again, or I doan’t knaw un.  Ess fay, he’ll depart wi’ his fiery nature an’ horrible ideas ‘pon manuring of land; an’ a gude riddance for Monks Barton, I say.”

“’Mazing ’t is,” declared Mr. Coomstock, “that he should look so black all times, seeing the gude fortune as turns up for un when most he wants it.”

“So ’t is,” admitted Billy.  “The faace of un weer allus sulky, like to the faace of a auld ram cat, as may have a gude heart in un for all his glowerin’ eyes.  But him!  Theer ban’t no pleasin’ un.  What do he want?  Surely never no man ’s failed on his feet awftener.”

“’T is that what ‘s spoilin’ un, I reckon,” said Mr. Chappie.  “A li’l ill-fortune he wants now, same as a salad o’ green stuff wants some bite to it.  He’d grumble in heaven, by the looks of un.  An’ yet it do shaw the patience of God wi’ human sawls.”