’Fate?  Bless thy simplicity, so ’twas her fate; but she struggled to have one, and would, and did.  Fate’s nothen beside a woman’s schemen!’

’I suppose, then, that Fate is a He, like us, and the Lord, and the rest o’ ’em up above there,’ said Gad, lifting his eyes to the sky.

’Hullo!  Here’s the young woman comen that we were a-talken about by-now,’ said a grinder, suddenly interrupting.  ’She’s comen up here, as I be alive!’

The two grinders stood and regarded Cytherea as if she had been a ship tacking into a harbour, nearly stopping the mill in their new interest.

‘Stylish accoutrements about the head and shoulders, to my thinken,’ said the clerk.  ‘Sheenen curls, and plenty o’ em.’

’If there’s one kind of pride more excusable than another in a young woman, ‘tis being proud of her hair,’ said Mr. Springrove.

‘Dear man!—­the pride there is only a small piece o’ the whole.  I warrant now, though she can show such a figure, she ha’n’t a stick o’ furniture to call her own.’

‘Come, Clerk Crickett, let the maid be a maid while she is a maid,’ said Farmer Springrove chivalrously.

‘O,’ replied the servant of the Church; ’I’ve nothen to say against it—­O no: 

’"The chimney-sweeper’s daughter Sue
As I have heard declare, O,
Although she’s neither sock nor shoe
Will curl and deck her hair, O."’

Cytherea was rather disconcerted at finding that the gradual cessation of the chopping of the mill was on her account, and still more when she saw all the cider-makers’ eyes fixed upon her except Mr. Springrove’s, whose natural delicacy restrained him.  She neared the plot of grass, but instead of advancing further, hesitated on its border.

Mr. Springrove perceived her embarrassment, which was relieved when she saw his old-established figure coming across to her, wiping his hands in his apron.

‘I know your errand, missie,’ he said, ’and am glad to see you, and attend to it.  I’ll step indoors.’

‘If you are busy I am in no hurry for a minute or two,’ said Cytherea.

’Then if so be you really wouldn’t mind, we’ll wring down this last filling to let it drain all night?’

‘Not at all.  I like to see you.’

‘We are only just grinding down the early pickthongs and griffins,’ continued the farmer, in a half-apologetic tone for detaining by his cider-making any well-dressed woman.  ’They rot as black as a chimney-crook if we keep ’em till the regulars turn in.’  As he spoke he went back to the press, Cytherea keeping at his elbow.  ‘I’m later than I should have been by rights,’ he continued, taking up a lever for propelling the screw, and beckoning to the men to come forward.  ’The truth is, my son Edward had promised to come to-day, and I made preparations; but instead of him comes a letter:  “London, September the eighteenth, Dear Father,” says he, and went on to tell me he couldn’t.  It threw me out a bit.’