“’Tis in a nutshell and all very shameful, but very convenient,” said Nicholas.  “White faced me about the amber heart after dinner, and axed me where I’d bought it, and, took unawares, I said at Moreton.  Then he told me I was a liar and could clear out of Hartland at the end of my month.  And then I owned up that I’d found the blessed thing on the moor and thought it would sound better in Mary Jane’s ear if I said I’d bought it.  Then he flattened me out by telling me ’twas his gift to you, and the whole trick had been planned by us both, as an insult to him and his sister.  Then I looked at Mary Jane and found, to my great thankfulness, she was in a mood to believe James; and then I went out of their sight that instant moment, before she had time to relent.  I packed my bag and I cleared, and I ain’t going back again, neither.”

She was very pleased indeed, Cora was.

“You couldn’t have done no better,” she said.  “You couldn’t have carried on cleverer than that if I’d advised you.  ’Tis a very sad affair for everybody, I’m sure, but better be troubled for a week than for a lifetime.  Now you go to Moreton and put up the banns and leave the rest to me, if you please.”

“What a day!” he said.  “If I didn’t know you, I should reckon you was going mad along of so much plotting.  How can I put up the banns—­me out of work and not a job in sight?  And where will you stand with Mrs. Dene when she hears that White have thrown you over?”

“Don’t waste your time axing questions,” she answered.  “I want your address in Moreton and that’s all there is to it for a fortnight till after we be wed.  You’ve got enough money to carry on, because you can draw out your twenty-five pounds from the Post Office Savings Bank; and I can draw out my fifteen, and that’s forty.  And don’t you look for no work, unless it’s jobbing work, but leave the future in my keeping till we meet again.”

With that they praised the Lord for all His mercies and the man went on his way, to tramp to Moreton and Cora returned home.  But the river ran at the bottom of her aunt’s garden and she popped down and dipped in it, clothes and all, before she returned to Mrs. Dene.

The old woman was sitting up in a bit of a stew, because the hour grew late and she minded what her niece had threatened.  In fact, she was half-inclined to go down to the police-station when the girl came in, soaking from head to heel, and told her story.

“I flinged myself in, as I ordained to do,” she said, “and by the wisdom of God a man was passing and heard the splash and saved me.  ’Twas Nicholas Caunter, the cowman at Hartland, who fought for my life, and he made me promise faithful I wouldn’t go in no more.  So I’ve got to live after all, Aunt Sarah.”

“In that case, you’d best to unray and get out of them clothes and go to bed,” said the old woman, hiding her relief, “else you’ll very likely die in earnest—­and no great loss if you did.”