"You say right, Miller. 'T is out of nature that a maid should fret her
innards to fiddlestrings 'bout a green bwoy when theer's ripe men
waitin' for her."

"Never heard better sense," declared John Grimbal, in high good-humour;
and from the red-letter hour of that conversation he let his love grow
into a giant. A man of old-fashioned convictions, he honestly believed
the parent wise who exercised all possible control over a child; and in
this case personal interest prompted him the more strongly to that
opinion. Common sense the world over was on his side, and no man with
the facts before him had been likely to criticise Miller Lyddon on the
course of action he thought proper to pursue for his daughter's ultimate
happiness. That he reckoned without his host naturally escaped the
father's thought at this juncture. Will Blanchard had dwindled in his
mind to the mere memory of a headstrong youngster, now far removed from
the scene of his stupidity and without further power to trouble. That he
could advise John to wait a while until Will's shadow grew less in
Phoebe's thought, argued kindness and delicacy of mind in Mr. Lyddon.
Will he only saw and gauged as the rest of the world. He did not fathom
all of him, as Mrs. Blanchard had said; while concerning Phoebe's inner
heart and the possibilities of her character, at a pinch, he could speak
with still less certainty. She was a virgin page, unturned, unscanned.
No man knew her strength or weakness; she did not know it herself.

Time progressed; the leaf fell and the long drought was followed by a
mild autumn of heavy rains. John Grimbal's days were spent between the
Red House and Monks Barton. His rod was put up; but he had already made
friends and now shot many partridges. He spent long evenings in the
society of Phoebe and her father at the farm; and the miller not seldom
contrived to be called away on these occasions. Billy proved ever ready