‘Is that the right way o’ beginning a will?’ said Coulson, a little startled.

’My father, and my father’s father, and my husband had it a-top of theirs, and I’m noane going for to cease fra’ following after them, for they were godly men, though my husband were o’ t’ episcopal persuasion.’

‘It’s done,’ said William.

‘Hast thee dated it?’ asked Alice.

‘Nay.’

‘Then date it third day, ninth month.  Now, art ready?’

Coulson nodded.

‘I, Alice Rose, do leave my furniture (that is, my bed and chest o’ drawers, for thy bed and things is thine, and not mine), and settle, and saucepans, and dresser, and table, and kettle, and all the rest of my furniture, to my lawful and only daughter, Hester Rose.  I think that’s safe for her to have all, is ‘t not, William?’

‘I think so, too,’ said he, writing on all the time.

‘And thee shalt have t’ roller and paste-board, because thee’s so fond o’ puddings and cakes.  It ’ll serve thy wife after I’m gone, and I trust she’ll boil her paste long enough, for that’s been t’ secret o’ mine, and thee’ll noane be so easy t’ please.’

‘I din’t reckon on marriage,’ said William.

‘Thee’ll marry,’ said Alice.  ’Thee likes to have thy victuals hot and comfortable; and there’s noane many but a wife as’ll look after that for t’ please thee.’

‘I know who could please me,’ sighed forth William, ’but I can’t please her.’

Alice looked sharply at him from over her spectacles, which she had put on the better to think about the disposal of her property.

‘Thee art thinking on our Hester,’ said she, plainly out.

He started a little, but looked up at her and met her eyes.

‘Hester cares noane for me,’ said he, dejectedly.

‘Bide a while, my lad,’ said Alice, kindly.  ’Young women don’t always know their own minds.  Thee and her would make a marriage after my own heart; and the Lord has been very good to me hitherto, and I think He’ll bring it t’ pass.  But don’t thee let on as thee cares for her so much.  I sometimes think she wearies o’ thy looks and thy ways.  Show up thy manly heart, and make as though thee had much else to think on, and no leisure for to dawdle after her, and she’ll think a deal more on thee.  And now mend thy pen for a fresh start.  I give and bequeath—­did thee put “give and bequeath,” at th’ beginning?’

‘Nay,’ said William, looking back.  ’Thee didst not tell me “give and bequeath!"’

‘Then it won’t be legal, and my bit o’ furniture ’ll be taken to London, and put into chancery, and Hester will have noane on it.’

‘I can write it over,’ said William.