“A sheer Cain, as no man will touch by the hand—­that’s what you’ll be,” added Billy, without apparent regret.

“If that’s so,” said Will, very calmly, “you’d best to think twice ’fore you sends me.  I’ve done a high-handed deed, bein’ forced into the same by happenings here when I went off last summer; but ’t is auld history now.  I’d like to be a credit to ’e some time, not a misery for all time.  Why not—?” He was going to suggest a course of action more favourable to himself than that promised; but it struck him suddenly that any attitude other than the one in which he had come savoured of snivelling for mercy.  So he stopped, left a break of silence, and proceeded with less earnestness in his voice.

“You’ve had a matter of eight weeks to decide in, so I thought I might ax’e, man to man, what’s gwaine to be done.”

“I have decided,” said the miller coldly; “I decided a week ago.”

Billy started and his blue eyes blinked inquiringly.  He sniffed his surprise and said “Well!” under his breath.

“Ess, ’t is so, I didn’t tell ’e, Blee, ‘cause I reckoned you’d try an’ turn me from my purpose, which wasn’t to be done.”

“Never—­not me.  I’m allus in flat agreement with ’e, same as any wise man finds hisself all times.”

“Well, doan’t ‘e take it ill, me keepin’ it to myself.”

“No, no—­awnly seem’ how—­”

“If it ’s all the same,” interrupted Will, “I’d like to knaw what you ’m gwaine for to do.”

“I’m gwaine to do nort, Will Blanchard—­nort at all.  God He knaws you ‘ve wronged me, an’ more ‘n me, an’ her—­Phoebe—­worst of all; but I’ll lift no hand ag’in’ you.  Bide free an’ go forrard your awn way—­”

“To the Dowl!” concluded Billy.

There was a silence, then Will spoke with some emotion.

“You ‘m a big, just man, Miller Lyddon; an’ if theer was anything could make me sorry for the past—­which theer ban’t—­’t would be to knaw you’ve forgived me.”

“He ain’t done no such thing!” burst out Mr. Blee.  “Tellin’ ’e to go to the Dowl ban’t forgivin’ of ’e!”

“That was your word,” answered Will hotly, “an’ if you didn’t open your ugly mouth so wide, an’ shaw such a ‘mazing poor crop o’ teeth same time, me an’ Miller might come to onderstanding.  I be here to see him, not you.”

“Gar! you ‘m a beast of a bwoy, looked at anyhow, an’ I wouldn’t have no dealin’s with ’e for money,” snorted the old man.

“Theer we’ll leave it then, Blanchard,” said Mr. Lyddon, as Will turned his back upon the last speaker without answering him.  “Go your way an’ try to be a better man; but doan’t ax me to forget what ’s passed—­no, nor forgive it, not yet.  I’ll come to a Christian sight of it some day, God willin’; but it ’s all I can say that I bear you no ill-will.”

“An’ I’m beholden enough for that.  You wait an’ keep your eye on me.  I’ll shaw you what’s in me yet.  I’ll surprise ’e, I promise.  Nobody in these paarts ’cept mother, knaws what ’s in me.  But, wi’out boastful words, I’ll prove it.  Because, Miller, I may assure ’e I’m a man as have thought a lot in my time ’bout things in general.”