“I’ve thought a lot in my time, Billy; an’ I haven’t done thinking yet.  I’ve comed to reckon as I caan’t do very well wi’out the world, though the world would fare easy enough wi’out me.”

Billy nodded.

“That’s sense so far as it goes,” he admitted.  “Obedience be hard to the young; to the auld it comes natural; to me allus was easy as dirt from my youth up.  Obedience to betters in heaven an’ airth.  But you—­you with your born luck—­never heard tell of nothin’ like it ’t all.  What’s a fix to you?  You goes in wan end an’ walks out t’ other, like a rabbit through a hedge.  Theer you was—­in such a tight pass as you might say neither God nor angels could get ’e free wi’out a Bible miracle, when, burnish it all! if the Jubilee Queen o’ England doan’t busy herself ’bout ’e!”

“‘T is true as I’m walkin’ by your side.  I’d give a year o’ my wages to knaw how I could shaw what I think about it.”

“You might thank her.  ’T is all as humble folks can do most times when Queens or Squires or the A’mighty Hisself spares a thought to better us.  Us can awnly say ‘thank you.’”

There was a silence of some duration; then Billy again bid his companion moderate his pace.

“I’m forgetting all I’ve got to tell ’e, though I’ve news enough for a buke,” he said.

“How’s Jan Grimbal, fust plaace?”

“On his legs again an’ out o’ danger if the Lunnon doctor knaws anything.  A hunderd guineas they say that chap have had!  Your name was danced to a mad tune ’pon Grimbal’s lips ’fore his senses corned back to un.  Why for I caan’t tell ‘e.  He’ve shook hands wi’ Death for sartain while you was away.”

“An’ mother, an’ wife, an’ Miller?”

“Your mother be well—­a steadfast woman her be.  Joy doan’t lift her up, an’ sorrow doan’t crush her.  Theer’s gert wisdom in her way of life.  ’T is my awn, for that matter.  Then Miller—­well, he ‘m grawin’ auld an’ doan’t rate me quite so high as formerly—­not that I judge anybody but myself.  An’ your missis—­theer, if I haven’t kept it for the last!  ’Tis news four-an-twenty hour old now an’ they wrote to ’e essterday, but I lay you missed the letter awin’ to me—­”

“Get on!”

“Well, she’ve brought ‘e a bwoy—­so now you’ve got both sorts—­bwoy an’ cheel.  An’ all doin’ well as can be, though wisht work for her, thinkin’ ’pon you the while.”

Will stood still and uttered a triumphant but inarticulate sound—­half-laugh, half-sob, half-thanksgiving.  Then the man spoke, slow and deep,—­

“He shall go for a soldier!”

“Theer!  Now I knaw ‘t is Blanchard back an’ no other!  Hear me, will ’e; doan’t plan no such uneven way of life for un.”

“By God, he shall!”

The words came back over Will Blanchard’s shoulder, for he was fast vanishing.

“Might have knawed he wouldn’t walk along wi’ me arter that,” thought Billy.  Then he lifted up his voice and bawled to the diminishing figure, already no more than a darker blot on the darkness of night.