slave, an' I your taskmaster; an' the sweetness o' your love shall come
by crushin', like trodden thyme. Shall I suit you?"

"I don't think you will."

"Then good-night to you."

"Good-night, Zeb. I don't fancy you'll suit me; but I'm not so sure as
before you began to speak.".

There was no answer to this but the slamming of the front door.


At half-past seven that morning, Parson Babbage, who had risen early,
after his wont, was standing on the Vicarage doorstep to respire the
first breath of the pale day, when he heard the garden gate unlatched
and saw Young Zeb coming up the path.

The young man still wore his festival dress; but his best stockings and
buckled shoes were stained and splashed, as from much walking in miry
ways. Also he came unsteadily, and his face was white as ashes.
The parson stared and asked--

"Young Zeb, have you been drinking?"

"No."

"Then 'tis trouble, my son, an' I ask your pardon."

"A man might call it so. I'm come to forbid my banns."