“’T is awnly my fearless disposition,” declared the wounded man with great humility; “no partic’lar credit to me.  I doan’t care wan iotum for the thought of churchyard mould—­not wan iotum.  I knaw the value of gude rich soil tu well; an’ a man as grudges the rames[3] of hisself to the airth that’s kept un threescore years an’ ten’s a carmudgeonly cuss, surely.”

[3] Rames = skeleton; remains.

“An’ so say I; theer’s true wisdom in it,” declared Mr. Chapple, while the miller nodded.

“Theer be,” concluded Gaffer Lezzard.  “I allus sez, in my clenching way, that I doan’t care a farden damn what happens to my bones, if my everlasting future be well thought on by passon.  So long as I catch the eye of un an’ see um beam ‘pon me to church now an’ again, I’m content with things as they are.”

“As a saved sawl you ’m in so braave a way as the best; but, to say it without rudeness, as food for the land a man of your build be nought, Gaffer,” argued Mr. Chapple, who viewed the veteran’s withered anatomy from his own happy vantage ground of fifteen stone.

But Gaffer Lezzard would by no means allow this.

“Ban’t quantity awnly tells, my son.  ’T is the aluminium in a man’s bones that fats land—­roots or grass or corn.  Anybody of larnin’, ’ll tell ’e that.  Strip the belly off ‘e, an’, bone for bone, a lean man like me shaws as fair as you.  No offence offered or taken, but a gross habit’s mere clay and does more harm than gude underground.”

Mr. Chapple in his turn resented this contemptuous dismissal of tissue as matter of no agricultural significance.  The old men went wrangling home; Miller Lyddon and Billy retired to their beds; the moon departed behind the distant moors; and all the darkened valley slept in snow and starlight.

CHAPTER VIII

A BROTHERS’ QUARREL

Though Phoebe was surprised at Will Blanchard’s mild attitude toward her weakness, she had been less so with more knowledge.  Chris Blanchard and her lover were in some degree responsible for Will’s lenity, and Clement’s politic letter to the wanderer, when Phoebe’s engagement was announced, had been framed in words best calculated to shield the Miller’s sore-driven daughter.  Hicks had thrown the blame on John Grimbal, on Mr. Lyddon, on everybody but Phoebe herself.  Foremost indeed he had censured Will, and pointed out that his own sustained silence, however high-minded the reason of it, was a main factor in his sweetheart’s sufferings and ultimate submission.

In answer to this communication Blanchard magically reappeared, announced his determination to marry Phoebe by subterfuge, and, the deed accomplished, take his punishment, whatever it might be, with light heart.  Given time to achieve a legal marriage, and Phoebe would at least be safe from the clutches of millionaires in general.