the rest. Anyway, you've got to mind what you've sweared. An' when
mother an' Chris ax 'e wheer I be, I'll thank you to say I'm out in the
world doin' braave, an' no more."

"As you like. It 's idle, I know, trying to make you change your mind."

A thin voice from an upper chamber of the cottage here interrupted their
colloquy, and the mother of the bee-keeper reminded him that he was due
early on the following day at Okehampton with honey, and that he ought
long since to be asleep.

"If that's Will Blanchard," she concluded, "tell un to be off home to
bed. What 's the wisdom o' turning night hours into day like this here?"

"All right, mother," shouted Will. "Gude-night to 'e. I be off this
moment."

Then bidding his friend farewell, he departed.

"Doan't think twice o' what I said a minute since. I was hot 'cause you
couldn't see no wisdom in my plan. But that's the way of folks. They
belittle a chap's best thoughts and acts till the time comes for luck to
turn an' bring the fruit; then them as scoffed be the first to turn
round smilin' an' handshaking and sayin', 'What did us say? Didn't us
tell 'e so from the very beginning?'"

Away went the youthful water-keeper, inspired with the prospect of his
contemplated flight. He strode home at a rapid pace, to find all lights
out and the household in bed. Then he drank half a pint of cider, ate
some bread and cheese, and set about a letter to Phoebe.