"That's it, Damaris Blanchard; who's gwaine to b'lieve that a bwoy an'
gal, like Will an' Phoebe, do knaw theer minds? Mark me, they'll both
chaange sweethearts a score of times yet 'fore they come to mate."

"Caan't speak for your darter, Lyddon; but I knaw my son. A masterful
bwoy, like his faither before him, wild sometimes an' wayward tu, but
not with women-folk. His faither loved in wan plaace awnly. He'll be
true to your cheel whatever betides, or I'm a fule."

"What's the use of that if he ban't true to himself? No, no, I caan't
see a happy ending to the tale however you look at it. Wish I could. I
fear't was a ugly star twinkled awver his birthplace, ma'am."

"'Twas all the stars of heaven, Miller," said the mother, frankly, "for
he was born in my husband's caravan in the auld days. We was camped up
on the Moor, drawn into one of them roundy-poundies o' grey granite
stones set up by Phoenicians at the beginning of the world. Ess fay, a
braave shiny night, wi' the li'l windows thrawed open to give me air.
An' 'pon Will's come-of-age birthday, last month, if us didn't all drive
up theer an' light a fire an' drink a dish of tea in the identical spot!
'Tis out Newtake' way."

"Like a story-book."

"'Twas Clem Hicks, his thought, being a fanciful man. But I'll bid you
gude-marnin' now. Awnly mind this, as between friends and without a
spark of malice: Will Blanchard means to marry your maid, sure as you'm
born, if awnly she keeps strong for him. It rests with her, Miller, not
you."