late, I'm afeard, an' forgot his manners."

"Come out in the back kitchen and wash the dust off," urged Mrs. Strange, "and then you'll enjoy your tea better, my dear. I'll fetch you out a drop of hot water."

Sam suffered himself to be hustled away, more because he was anxious for an opportunity for private conversation with his mother than because he owned himself vanquished; and that good woman, having closed the door behind her, proceeded to attend to his needs, affectionately, yet with a certain reserve of manner which indicated wounded feelings.

"I'll fetch you down father's comb and brush in a minute, Sam. There, for goodness sake take off that cross face! If father an' me's satisfied I'm sure you did ought to be satisfied. 'Twas very ill-natured of ye to talk so disrespectful o' Tamsine- The soap's just there under your hand."

"Mother," said Sam, eyeing her sternly from out of the folds of the round towel. "I can't think whatever's come to ye all. Why, you do know nothin' at all about this fellow. He did come trampin' up to Strange's on the look-out for, work."

He

"Well, there, my dear, nobody could think the worse for en for that. had but just left his ship, an' 'twas to the man's credit to be wishful not to be idle. He've a-got a very good character. He did show us his bank-book and a letter from his captain, an' he's a stanch teetotaller, he says. Father were terrible pleased to hear that. A-a-h, Sam, poor father have a-been terr'ble upset about your going to work in a common public. He were a-goin' to travel over to talk to 'ee about itan' about another tale what's come to his ears-but I'm sure that isn't true." "What are you drivin' at now?” growled Sam.

"Why, about your takin' up wi' the

widow West, a woman what must be years an' years older than yourself. But as I did say to father ye couldn't be so foolish-'twould be downright nonsensical for you to think o' takin' a wife at your age, anyhow."

"I don't see why I shouldn't get wed as well as another!" cried the lad fiercely. "It's nobody's business but my own. I was going to tell you myself. Who's been gossiping about it beforehand?"

"Oh, gossipin'!-there's no need to talk about gossipin'-us did have a let-. ter from Tamsine axin' us to be sure an' go up yonder to-week, as she were feelin' anxious about you, an' Tranter Haskell did mention as you was cwortin' the widow West."

"Well, it's true, then. Mrs. West an' I be promised to each other, an' ye did ought to be glad and proud, all of ye, as she should do me so much honor."

Sam's face emerged from the round towel, quivering with indignant feeling.

Mrs. Strange uttered a cry of anguish.

"Oh, Sam, ye never mean it! An' you not one-an'-twenty-an' earnin'— why, what can ye be earnin'?—not enough to keep yourself I'm sure! Oh dear, whatever will father say? Well, there, I did think we mid all ha' been happy together to-day-an' now-oh dear-oh dear!"

Her loud sobs were audible in the next room, and Mr. Strange, much alarmed, threw open the dividing door.

Mother and son entered upon a hurried and incoherent explanation, each contradicting the other, while the father, at first bewildered, and then angry, interposed an occasional query or comment, uttered in a kind of bellow.

The other two remained in their places, David wearing his usual impenetrable air, but keeping his eyes fixed

on the cloth; Tamsine pale and nerv

ous.

Sam, in his heat of indignation over the personal issue, forgot his original cause of complaint so completely that he presently turned to his future brother-in-law for support.

"I say Martha West's a woman as any man mid be proud and glad to take to wife," he cried. "There's nobody what can say a word again her. She've always kept herself to herself and worked hard, an' never had nothin' to do wi' nobody. You can speak up for her, Davidge"

"What have I to do with her?" cried David quickly, and without raising his eyes. "I'm a stranger in Chudbury."

"Well, you've been lodgin' in the same house as long as I have myself," cried Sam, indignant and astonished.

"Is that the case?" interposed Tom Strange. "Well, I can trust you to speak out your mind like an honest man. Seein' as you're to be our Tamsine's husband, you'll be as anxious as ourselves to keep her brother from doin' a foolish thing."

David drummed upon the table with his long brown fingers and gave his head a little impatient jerk.

"I don't think it is my place to give an opinion on such a private matter," he said, after a pause.

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Strange, with a sob; "I'm sure 'tis plain to be seen he doesn't think so very well o' the 'ooman. An' you be my eldest son, Sam, what I always was so proud on!"

"Speak out, Mr. Davidge," cried Tom sharply. "Let's have no beatin' about the bush. Tamsine, you tell him to give us a straight answer. Let him say plain if this Mrs. West is the kind o' 'ooman he'd advise your brother to take for a wife. Yes or no."

"You had better say what you think," urged Tamsine in her turn.

"Well, then," said David, raising his eyes, "if it's to be one word, 'Yes or no'-it's no."

He rose from the table as though to end the discussion.

"Tamsine, my maid, if we be to get back before dark, it's time we were thinkin' o' startin'."

"Yes," agreed Tamsine, also in haste to close this painful scene, "I'm sure we ought to be going. Good-bye, father. Do try and come over to Strange's soon. Good-bye, motherthere don't ye cry no more. Try and persuade Sam to bide here for a bit," she whispered, drawing her mother aside. "He's doin' no good in Chudbury. I'm sure he'd soon give up thinkin' o' the widow West if they was parted. Don't ye fret no more. "Tis but a boy; he'll get sense. Good-bye, Sam; don't bear malice. Davidge did have to speak out plain when he was axed, an' any man o' sense must see as that Mrs. West 'ud never make ye happy. She couldn't really mean to marry you-'tis best for ye to give up the notion."

But Sam rejected the proffered hand and turned sulkily away.

David neither looked at nor spoke to him; he was in fact thoroughly exasperated with the young fool who had forced him to play a part which he hated, but which was unavoidable under the circumstances.

Yet when they had left the little hamlet behind, and he found himself spinning gaily along the road with Tamsine beside him, he dismissed the unpleasing memory from his mind and smiled down at her with entire satisfaction.

The sun was setting as they turned off the main road, and the evening breeze had a grateful freshness. From every hedge and wayside plantation came forth the familiar incense of the evening. By-and-by a pale star or two twinkled in the sky, and a little

silvery crescent hovered as it seemed above them.

"The new moon!" exclaimed David. "The new moon a-shinin' on our new life-let's bow to it for luck! Afore the horns do p'int the other way, Tamsine, my maid, my ring 'ull be on your finger."

Martha, standing in her dusky garden an hour or two later took impatient note of the crescent moon and wished it were larger. The summer night was dark, even though the sky was full of stars; she listened, straining her ears for the footfall of Sam's returning horse. How late he was! His mission must surely have failed: if his mother had consented to return with him they must have reached Chudbury before this. Even if Sam had driven her straight to Strange's he himself would be bound to bring back horse and trap to the inn.

Presently, passing through the little gate she stood awhile in the road, looking up and down. Everything seemed unnaturally quiet; the village children were in bed, and the elder folk apparently indoors; there was not even a dog barking. Yes, there was one barking now-a long way off; and there at last was the beat of a horse's hoofs-a horse that was evidently proceeding very slowly, the footfalls being irregular, moreover. The sounds did not come from the direction of the downs, but from the main road. Without pausing to reflect Martha walked rapidly to meet the vehicle.

About a quarter of a mile from the village she came upon an empty trap drawn by a very lame horse, with a figure of a man trudging heavily beside it.

"Is that you, Sam?" she asked in a low voice.

"It's me," he rejoined, bringing the horse to a standstill. "I'm sorry you took the trouble to come out to meet me, Mrs. West, I've no very good news

to give 'ee. There, Tamsine an' that sailor chap have got the better of I. They've reg'larly took and turned father an' mother against us."

"Against us-you and me, you mean?"

"Yes, you an' me. "Twas bad enough to find I had all my trouble for nothing wi'out bein' abused an' insulted." "Tell me about it," said Martha.

"I ought to be gettin' on," groaned Sam. "The horse is dead lame an' they be watchin' out for me up at the inn."

"Tell me about it, then, as you go along," insisted she.

As they walked together beside the lame horse Sam poured forth his injuries, Martha listening in absolute silence until he described in a voice which trembled with wrath the manner in which David had responded to his appeal.

"He wouldn't say one word for me!" she whispered, almost voicelessly.

"He wouldn't say but the one word, an' that was again ye," rejoined Sam trenchantly. "He's a traitor, that's what he is-a traitor."

Martha made no audible reply, yet her heart seemed to shriek the word.

CHAPTER XXII. Preparations for Tamsine's wedding went forward apace.

David's attractive personality and prosperous condition, as vouched for by the evidence of the bank-book, coupled with his captain's letter, and the fact of his being a staunch teetotaller, had firmly established him in her parents' esteem. Moreover, as Mrs. Strange said to her husband on retiring to rest that night, it was a mercy the girl had chosen so well, for she was her own mistress up yonder, an' if she had took a fancy to one o' they rowdy chaps up to Chudbury, nobody could ha' prevented her marrying him.

They had had proof of the length to which the independence of the rising generation could go only that very day in the conduct of Sam, who in spite of his mother's tears and entreaties, and his father's exhortations and threats, had insisted on returning to Chudbury.

There was great scrubbing and cleaning at Strange's; the walls of the living room were whitewashed, or rather yellow-washed; Tamsine had chosen a pretty paper for the big bedroom upstairs, when David, who was constantly in and out of the house during those weeks, pronounced against it.

"What's that for?" he asked.

"Why, the best room upstairs," rejoined Tamsine, with a blush; "uncle Cosh's room."

"Where the wold chap died?" inquired he, wrinkling his brows.

"A-many Stranges have died in that room," announced Mrs. Cornick, from the back kitchen, "and a-many have been barn there too" she added sentimentally.

David stood fingering the paper until the sound of a running tap denoted that Mrs. Cornick had returned to the job in hand, and then crossed the room and closed the door.

"You don't like the notion of Uncle Cosh's room?" asked Tamsine.

"No, I don't," he rejoined bluntly. "What have you an' me to do wi' all the wold folks what be moulderin' underground? I'd like us to keep your room wi' the white walls where I did see your shadow-and the window lookin' out on the stack."

'Tis but small," said Tamsine, her face falling a little, "but if you do like it best"

"I do like it best," he interrupted ve hemently; "and I do like the white walls, just as they are."

To the scandal of Mrs. Cornick, therefore, the attic room with its sloping room and whitewashed walls was

converted into the bridal chamber; all was immaculately fresh and clean indeed, yet but few alterations were made since those early days when Tamsine had first taken possession of it.

Her wedding dress was of white silk with a little green sprig all over it and she chose a white hat of moderate size and trimmed it herself with white silk ribbon.

The banns were given out in the two parishes, for Tamsine had decided to be married from her old home, by the white-haired clergyman who had joined the hands of her father and mother.

David interviewed the Chudbury vicar himself to arrange about being "asked" in church on his side. It was the same who had long ago taken an interest in the clever lad while still at the industrial school, and who had afterwards caused the escaped convict such grievous disappointment.

"I do feel a bit nervous about your goin' to see him," murmured Tamsine; "I think it 'ud be safer to get somebody else to do it."

"No," said David; "I'll have to come across en one o' these days, an' 'tis best to begin straight off. Shall us go together? No, that truth-tellin' face o' yours mid make en guess summat. If he don't find me out first off, he never will," he added with a laugh.

""Tis no laughin' matter, I'm sure!" exclaimed Tamsine, almost crying. "There, David, you do bring my heart to my mouth sometimes. A body 'ud almost think you loved the danger."

David appeared to reflect. "I don't exactly love it," he said, "but ye must admit it is excitin'. But I'll soon put parson off the scent if he do seem like guessin'."

He was prudent enough, however, to call at the vicarage at dusk, when it was the clergyman's habit, as he well knew, to smoke a meditative pipe in his

garden before retiring to his study to read. He was a bachelor, a fact which, as David gaily pointed out to Tamsine, was conducive to his own safety.

"Who's this?" enquired Mr. Ashley, when David came striding up the gravelled path which led to the summerhouse.

"They told me up at the house as I'd find you here, sir," rejoined David, in a very deep voice. "I've come to ask you to put up my banns next Sunday. Miss Strange o' the farm up yonder on the downs-Tamsine Strange-her an' me is goin' to get married. The wedding's to be at Little Branston, where her folks do live, but she do tell me we'll have to be asked here as well."

"Let me see," said the vicar, rising and coming out from under the thatched roof of the summer-house, "are you a parishioner of mine?"

"Well, I've been a-livin' in Chudbury for three week or more," rejoined David. "I can't say I've been to church yet, but Tamsine 'ull make me go when we be wed, I've no doubt."

"So

"Tamsine Strange is a very good girl," rejoined Mr. Ashley stiffly. you've been living in Chudbury-I don't seem to know you. Who are you?" "My name is Davidge," announced the other firmly. "Jack Davidge. I was a sailor afore I come here. I've a-been lodging at Miss Strickland's till a few days ago."

"I heard Miss Strickland had two lodgers," said Mr. Ashley. "I was glad of it, for she has a hard struggle, poor soul."

"I've shifted to Cobb's now," said David quickly; "'tis nearer my work. I be under-shepherd up to Strange's."

"Oh," remarked the vicar reflectively: "that is how Miss Strange came across you, I suppose. It seems very sudden."

""Twas a bit sudden," agreed David; "but once we do know our feelin's, 'tis

best to settle things straight off. There's nothin' to wait for. Tamsine 'ull be the better for a husband an I'll be the better for a wife."

The parson stroked his chin, feeling a little nonplussed by David's independence of manner, though there was no denying the truth of what he said. If they were sure of each other it was better to marry at once than to waste time in the protracted rustic courtship which occasionally ends in disaster.

"I wish one knew more about you," he murmured, half to himself.

"I've a-got good credentials," said David: "Mr. and Mrs. Strange are quite content and Tamsine's satisfied."

"Well, in that case I suppose I ought to be satisfied too," returned Mr. Ashley, smiling, "particularly if she is going to make you a good Churchman."

"She can make anythin' she do like o' me," responded David. "Good evenin', sir."

"Wait a bit," cried the other. "On Sunday, you say, Thomasine Strange and John Davidge-you said your name was John, didn't you?"

"I said my name was Jack," replied David, "and Jack it is. I don't want to be called by no other."

He turned on his heel and was gone. "A singular man," mused the vicar, looking after him. "I trust Thomasine Strange has chosen wisely. A very singular man-yet there is something straightforward and attractive about

him."

He ruminated as he returned to the arbor: his new parishioner reminded him of some one of whom he could not think.

As he smoked he cogitated. Where had he before met with that unexpected mingling of independence and a quality which might almost be defined as charm, but that such an expression seemed out of place when applied to a man whose social level was little above that of a day laborer?