Soon Will Blanchard reached his sweetheart, and showed himself a brown,
straight youngster, with curly hair, pugnacious nose, good shoulders,
and a figure so well put together that his height was not apparent until
he stood alongside another man. Will's eyes were grey as Phoebe's, but
of a different expression; soft and unsettled, cloudy as the recent
weather, full of the alternate mist and flash of a precious stone, one
moment all a-dreaming, the next aglow. His natural look was at first
sight a little stern until a man came to know it, then this impression
waned and left a critic puzzled. The square cut of his face and abrupt
angle of his jaw did not indeed belie Will Blanchard, but the man's
smile magically dissipated this austerity of aspect, and no sudden
sunshine ever brightened a dark day quicker than pleasure made bright
his features. It was a sulky, sleepy, sweet, changeable face--very
fascinating in the eyes of women. His musical laugh once fluttered
sundry young bosoms, brightened many pretty eyes and cheeks, but Will's
heart was Phoebe Lyddon's now--had been for six full months--and albeit
a mere country boy in knowledge of the world, younger far than his
one-and-twenty years of life, and wholly unskilled in those arts whose
practice enables men to dwell together with friendship and harmony, yet
Will Blanchard was quite old enough and wise enough and rich enough to
wed, and make a husband of more than common quality at that--in his own
opinion.

Fortified by this conviction, and determined to wait no longer, he now
came to see Phoebe. Within the sheltering arms of the Pixies' Parlour he
kissed her, pressed her against his wet velveteen jacket, then sat down
under the rocks beside her.

"You 'm comed wi' the sun, dear Will."