“Nothing.  It’s all easy.  The train starts for Moreton at half-past nine.  Sam Bonus be gwaine to drive me in, and bide theer for me till I come back from Newton.  Faither’s awnly too pleased to let me go.  I said ’t was shopping.”

“An’ when you come home you’ll tell him—­Mr. Lyddon—­straight?”

“Everything, an’ thank God for a clean breast again.”

“An’ Will?”

“Caan’t say what he’ll do after.  Theer’ll be no real marryin’ for us yet a while.  Faither can have the law of Will presently,—­that’s all I knaw.”

“Trust Will to do the right thing; and mind, come what may to him, theer’s allus Clem Hicks and me for friends.”

“Ban’t likely to be many others left, come to-morrow night.  But I’ve run away from my own thoughts to think of you and him often of late days.  He’ll get money and marry you, won’t he, when his aunt, Mrs. Coomstock, dies?”

“No; I thought so tu, an’ hoped it wance; but Clem says what she’ve got won’t come his way.  She’s like as not to marry, tu—­there ’m a lot of auld men tinkering after her, Billy Blee among ’em.”

Sounds arose from beneath.  They began with harsh and grating notes, interrupted by a violent hawking and spitting.  Then followed renewal of the former unlovely noises.  Presently, at a point in the song, for such it was, half a dozen other voices drowned the soloist in a chorus.

“‘T is Billy rehearsin’ moosic,” explained Phoebe, with a sickly smile.  “He haven’t singed for a score of years; but they’ve awver-persuaded him and he’s promised to give ’em an auld ballet on my wedding-day.”

“My stars! ’t is a gashly auld noise sure enough,” criticised Phoebe’s friend frankly; “for all the world like a stuck pig screechin’, or the hum of the threshin’ machine poor faither used to have, heard long ways off.”

Quavering and quivering, with sudden painful flights into a cracked treble, Billy’s effort came to the listeners.

    “‘Twas on a Monday marnin’
       Afore the break of day,
     That I tuked up my turmit-hoe
       An’ trudged dree mile away!”

Then a rollicking chorus, with rough music in it, surged to their ears—­

    “An’ the fly, gee hoppee! 
     The fly, gee whoppee! 
     The fly be on the turmits,
     For ’t is all my eye for me to try
     An’ keep min off the turmits!”

Mr. Blee lashed his memory and slowly proceeded, while Chris, moved by a sort of sudden mother-instinct towards pale and tearful Phoebe, strained her to her bosom, hugged her very close, kissed her, and bid her be hopeful and happy.

“Taake gude heart, for you ’m to mate the best man in all the airth but wan!” she said; “an’, if ’t is awnly to keep Billy from singing in public, ’t is a mercy you ban’t gwaine to take Jan Grimbal.  Doan’t ’e fear for him.  There’ll be a thunder-storm for sartain; then he’ll calm down, as better ’n him have had to ‘fore now, an’ find some other gal.”