"Jan Grimbal's a very differ'nt fashion of man to his brother; that I
saw in a moment when they bided with us for a week, till the 'Three
Crowns' could take 'em in. I hate Jan--hate him cruel; but I like
Martin. He puts me in mind o' you, Clem, wi' his nice way of speech and
tender quickness for women. But it's Phoebe we'm speaking of. I think
you should write stern to Will an' frighten him. It ban't fair fightin',
that poor, dear Phoebe 'gainst the will o' two strong men."

"Well, she's had paltry food for a lover since he went away. He's got
certain ideas, and she'll hear direct when--but there, I must shut my
mouth, for I swore by fantastic oaths to say nothing."

"He ought to write, whether or no. You tell Will that Jan Grimbal be
about building a braave plaace up under Whiddon, and is looking for a
wife at Monks Barton morning, noon, an' evening. That's like to waken
him. An' tell him the miller's on t'other side, and clacking Jan Grimbal
into Phoebe's ear steadier than the noise of his awn water-wheel."

"And she will grow weak, mark me. She sees that red-brick place rising
out of the bare boughs, higher and higher, and knows that from floor to
attics all may be hers if she likes to say the word. She hears great
talk of drawing-rooms, and pictures, and pianos, and greenhouses full of
rare flowers, and all the rest--why, just think of it!"

"Ban't many gals as could stand 'gainst a piano, I daresay."

"I only know one--mine."

Chris looked at him curiously.