“If a man that was a man, with a bit of land and a bit of stuff behind him, came along and asked to court her, ’t would be different, I suppose?” he inquired.

“I’d wish just such a man might come, for her sake.”

“Supposing I asked if I might try to win Phoebe?”

“I’d desire your gude speed, my son.  Nothing could please, me better.”

“Then I’ve got you on my side?”

“You really mean it?  Well, well!  Gert news to be sure, an’ I be pleased as Punch to hear ’e.  But take my word, for I’m richer than you by many years in knawledge of the world, though I haven’t seen so much of it.  Go slow.  Wait a while till that brown bwoy graws a bit dim in Phoebe’s eyes.  Your life ’s afore you, and the gal ’s scarce marriageable, to my thinking.  Build your house and bide your time.”

“So be it; and if I don’t win her presently, I sha’n’t deserve to.”

“Ess, but taake time, lad.  She ’m a dutiful, gude maiden, and I’d be sore to think my awn words won’t carry their weight when the right moment comes for speaking ’em.  Blanchard’s business pulled down the corners of her purty mouth a bit; but young hearts caan’t keep mournful for ever.”

Billy Blee then took his turn on the argument.  Thus far he had listened, and now, according to his custom, argued on the popular side and bent his sail to the prevalent wind of opinion.

“You say right, Miller.  ’T is out of nature that a maid should fret her innards to fiddlestrings ’bout a green bwoy when theer’s ripe men waitin’ for her.”

“Never heard better sense,” declared John Grimbal, in high good-humour; and from the red-letter hour of that conversation he let his love grow into a giant.  A man of old-fashioned convictions, he honestly believed the parent wise who exercised all possible control over a child; and in this case personal interest prompted him the more strongly to that opinion.  Common sense the world over was on his side, and no man with the facts before him had been likely to criticise Miller Lyddon on the course of action he thought proper to pursue for his daughter’s ultimate happiness.  That he reckoned without his host naturally escaped the father’s thought at this juncture.  Will Blanchard had dwindled in his mind to the mere memory of a headstrong youngster, now far removed from the scene of his stupidity and without further power to trouble.  That he could advise John to wait a while until Will’s shadow grew less in Phoebe’s thought, argued kindness and delicacy of mind in Mr. Lyddon.  Will he only saw and gauged as the rest of the world.  He did not fathom all of him, as Mrs. Blanchard had said; while concerning Phoebe’s inner heart and the possibilities of her character, at a pinch, he could speak with still less certainty.  She was a virgin page, unturned, unscanned.  No man knew her strength or weakness; she did not know it herself.