Martin, then, primed with a work of fiction, prayed that Chris might prove a reader of such things, and called at Mrs. Blanchard’s cottage exactly one fortnight after his former visit.  Chance favoured him to an extent beyond his feeble powers to profit by.  Will was out for a walk, and Mrs. Blanchard being also from home, Martin enjoyed conversation with Chris alone.  He began well enough, while she listened and smiled.  Then he lost his courage and lied, and dragging the novel from his pocket, asserted that he had bought the tale for her brother.

“A story-book!  I doubt Will never read no such matter in his life, Mr. Grimbal.”

“But get him to try.  It’s quite a new thing.  There’s a poaching adventure and so forth—­all very finely done according to the critical journals.”

“He’ll never sit down to that gert buke.”

“You read it then, and tell him if it is good.”

“Me!  Well, I do read now and again, an’ stories tu; but Will wouldn’t take my word.  Now if Phoebe was to say ‘t was braave readin’, he’d go for it fast enough.”

“I may leave it, at any rate?”

“Leave it, an’ thank you kindly.”

“How is Will getting on?”

“Quite well again.  Awnly riled ’cause Mr. Lyddon lies so low.  Clem told us what the miller can do, but us doan’t knaw yet what he will do.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know himself,” suggested Martin.  The name of “Clem,” uttered thus carelessly by her, made him envious.  Then, inspired by the circumstance, a request which fairly astounded the speaker by its valour dropped on his listener’s ear.

“By the way, don’t call me ‘Mr. Grimbal.’  I hope you’ll let me be ‘Martin’ in a friendly way to you all, if you will be so very kind and not mind my asking.”

The end of the sentence had its tail between its legs, but he got the words cleanly out, and his reward was great.

“Why, of course, if you’d rather us did; an’ you can call me ‘Chris’ if you mind to,” she said, laughing. “’T is strange you took sides against your brother somehow to me.”

“I haven’t—­I didn’t—­except in the matter of Phoebe.  He was wrong there, and I told him so,—­”

He meant to end the sentence with the other’s name, only the word stuck in his throat; but “Miss Blanchard” he would not say, after her permission, so left a gap.

“He’ll not forgive ’e that in a hurry.”

“Not readily, but some day, I hope.  Now I must really go—­wasting your precious time like this; and I do hope you may read the book.”

“That Will may?”

“No—­yes—­both of you, in fact.  And I’ll come to know whether you liked it.  Might I?”

“Whether Will liked it?”

She nodded and laughed, then the door hid her; while Martin Grimbal went his way treading upon air.  Those labourers whom he met received from him such a “Good evening!” that the small parties, dropping back on Chagford from their outlying toil, grinned inquiringly, they hardly knew at what.