“Ess, it do,” answered Mr. Blee; “but patience ban’t a virtue, pushed tu far.  Justice is justice, as I’ve said more ‘n wance to Miller an’ Blanchard, tu, an’ a man of my years can see wheer justice lies so clear as God can.  For why?  Because theer ban’t room for two opinions.  I’ve give my Maker best scores an’ scores o’ times, as we all must; but truth caan’t alter, an’ having put thinking paarts into our heads, ’t is more ‘n God A’mighty’s Self can do to keep us from usin’ of’em.”

“A tremenjous thought,” said Mr. Chapple.

“So ‘t is.  An’ what I want to knaw is, why should Blanchard have his fling, an’ treat me like dirt, an’ ride rough-shod awver his betters, an’ scowl at the sky all times, an’ nothin’ said?”

“Providence doan’t answer a question just ’cause we ’m pleased to ax wan,” said Abraham Chown.  “What happens happens, because ’t is foreordained, an’ you caan’t judge the right an’ wrong of a man’s life from wan year or two or ten, more ‘n you can judge a glass o’ ale by a tea-spoon of it.  Many has a long rope awnly to hang themselves in the end, by the wonnerful foresight of God.”

“All the same, theer’d be hell an’ Tommy to pay mighty quick, if you an’ me did the things that bwoy does, an’ carried on that onreligious,” replied Mr. Blee, with gloomy conviction.  “Ban’t fair to other people, an’ if ‘t was Doomsday I’d up an’ say so.  What gude deeds have he done to have life smoothed out, an’ the hills levelled an’ the valleys filled up?  An’ nought but sour looks for it.”

“But be you sure he ’m happy?” inquired Mr. Chapple.  “He ’m not the man to walk ‘bout wi’ a fiddle-faace if ‘t was fair weather wi’ un.  He’ve got his troubles same as us, depend upon it.”

Blanchard himself entered at this moment.  It wanted but half an hour to closing time when he did so, and he glanced round the bar, snorted at the thick atmosphere of alcohol and smoke, then pulled out his pipe and took a vacant chair.

“Gude evenin’, Will,” said Mr. Chapple.

“A happy New Year, Blanchard,” added the landlord.

“Evening, sawls all,” answered Will, nodding round him.  “Auld year’s like to die o’ frost by the looks of it—­a stinger, I tell ’e.  Anybody seen Farmer Endicott?  I’ve been looking for un since noon wi’ a message from my faither-in-law.”

“I gived thicky message this marnin’,” cried Billy.

“Ess, I knaw you did; that’s my trouble.  You gived it wrong.  I’ll just have a pint of the treble X then.  ’T is the night for ’t.”

Will’s demeanour belied the recent conversation respecting him.  He appeared to be in great spirits, joked with the men, exchanged shafts with Billy, and was the first to roar with laughter when Mr. Blee got the better of him in a brisk battle of repartee.  Truth to tell, the young man’s heart felt somewhat lighter, and with reason.  To-morrow his promise to Phoebe held him no longer, and his carking, maddening