"It's true, every word he says," declared John Grimbal.

"I believe it," answered the miller; "though God forbid any word or act
of mine should bring wan tear to Phoebe's cheek. Yet, somehow, I doan't
knaw but you 'm right."

"I am, believe me. It's the truth. You want Phoebe's real happiness
considered, and that now depends on--well, I'll say it out--on me. We
have reached the point now when you must speak, as you promised to
speak, and throw the weight of your influence on my side. Then, after
you've had your say, I'll have mine and put the great question."

Mr. Lyddon nodded his head and relapsed into taciturnity.




CHAPTER VI

AN UNHAPPY POET


That a man of many nerves, uncertain in temper and with no physical or
temporal qualifications, should have won for himself the handsomest girl
in Chagford caused the unreflective to marvel whenever they considered
the point. But a better knowledge of Chris Blauchard had served in some
measure to explain the wonder. Of all women, she was the least likely to
do the thing predicted by experience. She had tremendous force of
character for one scarce twenty years of age; indeed, she lived a