[Illustration:  026.jpg Said it was but a Pixie]

John Fry, who in the spring of fright had brought himself down from Smiler’s side, as if he were dipped in oil, now came up to me, all risk being over, cross, and stiff, and aching sorely from his wet couch of heather.

“Small thanks to thee, Jan, as my new waife bain’t a widder.  And who be you to zupport of her, and her son, if she have one?  Zarve thee right if I was to chuck thee down into the Doone-track.  Zim thee’ll come to un, zooner or later, if this be the zample of thee.”

And that was all he had to say, instead of thanking God!  For if ever born man was in a fright, and ready to thank God for anything, the name of that man was John Fry not more than five minutes agone.

However, I answered nothing at all, except to be ashamed of myself; and soon we found Peggy and Smiler in company, well embarked on the homeward road, and victualling where the grass was good.  Right glad they were to see us again—­not for the pleasure of carrying, but because a horse (like a woman) lacks, and is better without, self-reliance.

My father never came to meet us, at either side of the telling-house, neither at the crooked post, nor even at home-linhay although the dogs kept such a noise that he must have heard us.  Home-side of the linhay, and under the ashen hedge-row, where father taught me to catch blackbirds, all at once my heart went down, and all my breast was hollow.  There was not even the lanthorn light on the peg against the cow’s house, and nobody said “Hold your noise!” to the dogs, or shouted “Here our Jack is!”

I looked at the posts of the gate, in the dark, because they were tall, like father, and then at the door of the harness-room, where he used to smoke his pipe and sing.  Then I thought he had guests perhaps—­people lost upon the moors—­whom he could not leave unkindly, even for his son’s sake.  And yet about that I was jealous, and ready to be vexed with him, when he should begin to make much of me.  And I felt in my pocket for the new pipe which I had brought him from Tiverton, and said to myself, “He shall not have it until to-morrow morning.”

Woe is me!  I cannot tell.  How I knew I know not now—­only that I slunk away, without a tear, or thought of weeping, and hid me in a saw-pit.  There the timber, over-head, came like streaks across me; and all I wanted was to lack, and none to tell me anything.

By-and-by, a noise came down, as of woman’s weeping; and there my mother and sister were, choking and holding together.  Although they were my dearest loves, I could not bear to look at them, until they seemed to want my help, and put their hands before their eyes.

CHAPTER IV

A VERY RASH VISIT

[Illustration:  028.jpg Illustrated Capital]