The Parson felt decidedly sick.  He was country-born himself, and, being no mere dreamer of dreams, realised that it was as well that country people should not flinch at the less poetic side of their lives, but this callousness struck him as horrible in a young child like Phoebe.  Yet as he saw Ishmael wince he regretted the very sensibility in the boy, the lack of which had shocked him in Phoebe.  He knew Ishmael had a horror of blood and disagreeable sights, and the thought of how often the boy would have to encounter them struck at his heart.

“I won’t see it,” said Ishmael, pressing himself back against the house wall; “I won’t see where no pig was killed.”  Then, afraid lest Phoebe should taunt him with his fear:  “But I’ll come and see the pigs, though I don’t s’pose they’re as fine as ours.  They were ringed yesterday was a week, and even the piggy-widden’s bigger than most pigs.”

“Ours is bigger, ours is bigger!” cried Phoebe indignantly, “and you’m nawthen but a geat coward, Ishmael Ruan.  I don’t want my pigs to set eyes on ’ee!”

She sauntered away across the yard, but turned her head as she reached the far end, and glanced back at Ishmael.  He hesitated, pride fighting with longing; then he also began to saunter—­aimlessly at first; then, giving up the struggle, he frankly followed her.  Lenine chuckled softly.

“Talk o’ the way o’ a man wi’ a maid—­’tes nawthen to the way o’ a maid wi’ a man, is it, Passon?  She’ll be one for the chaps, she will!”

Boase assented, laughing, then his eyes saddened, as he watched the two little figures, side by side now, disappear round the corner of the pig-styes.  It suddenly struck him as rather horrible that anything so innocent as Ishmael still was should develop into a man, even a healthy, clean-living man; such a pity that the instinct that was the cause of charming play with Phoebe should ever become desire.  It was a feeling that a mother might have had, and Boase smiled at it even as he gave a sigh to the pity of inexorable things.

“So you’re bringing Phoebe over to Cry the Neck, Sam?” he asked casually.  Sam Lenine nodded.

“Gwain be there, Passon?”

“Maybe.  Fact is, Sam, I thought it would be a good opportunity to sit that boy at the head of the table—­”

Lenine nodded again, but waited in silence.

“You’re an influential man,” continued Boase, “and the way you speak of him and treat things generally would rather give the lead to the people round here.”

For the third time the miller nodded, then started a little as he caught sight of Ishmael and Phoebe reappearing from the pig-stye, and his eyes lightened suddenly.  He dropped his thickly-veined lids to hide them.

“Happen I can do a little, Passon,” he said; “I’ll think on et.”

“Do,” said Boase heartily.  Then he too started slightly and looked at the miller a little suspiciously, and, though he said nothing, his face darkened.  Already the cords of intrigue were beginning to close round Ishmael Ruan, and the Parson longed to break them with one clean stroke, even while he realised the futility of the wish.  He called rather sharply to the children.