the man plied her with what money would buy, and busied himself to bring
her happiness in spite of herself. Troubled he was, nevertheless, and
constantly sought the miller that he might listen to comforting
assurances that he need be under no concern.

"'T is natural in wan who's gwaine to say gude-bye to maidenhood so
soon," declared Mr. Lyddon. "I've thought 'bout her tears a deal. God
knaws they hurt me more 'n they do her, or you either; but such sad
whims and cloudy hours is proper to the time. Love for me's got a share
in her sorrow, tu. 'T will all be well enough when she turns her back on
the church-door an' hears the weddin'-bells a-clashing for her future
joy. Doan't you come nigh her much during the next few weeks."

"Two," corrected Mr. Grimbal, moodily.

"Eh! Awnly two! Well, 't is gert darkness for me, I promise you--gert
darkness comin' for Monks Barton wi'out the butivul sound an' sight of
her no more. But bide away, theer's a gude man; bide away these coming
few days. Her last maiden hours mustn't be all tears. But my gifts do
awnly make her cry, tu, if that's consolation to 'e. It's the
tenderness of her li'l heart as brims awver at kindness."

In reality, Phoebe's misery was of a complexion wholly different. The
necessity for living thus had not appeared so tremendous until she found
herself launched into this sea of terrible deception. In operation such
sustained falsity came like to drive her mad. She could not count the
lies each day brought forth; she was frightened to pray for forgiveness,
knowing every morning must see a renewal of the tragedy. Hell seemed
yawning for her, and the possibility of any ultimate happiness, reached
over this awful road of mendacity and deceit, was more than her