been gravely twirling for hours, was only now beginning to subside. The
candles guttered and grew soft in the warmth, beads of moisture stood
out on the faces of the company, and the smell of incompletely-washed
bodies reminded the Parson of hot afternoons with his Sunday school.

Phoebe found Ishmael dull since his volubility had begun to desert
him, and turning a disdainful shoulder, she tried to draw Jacka's
John-Willy into conversation--a difficult matter, since, though he had
been placed there instead of in the barn for Phoebe's benefit, he felt
the watchful eye of his mother, who was waiting at table, too frequently
upon him for his comfort.

Katie Jacka, her colour more set than it had been when she witnessed
that marriage eight years ago, was as emotional as ever, her facile
feelings only restrained at all by her husband's rigid taciturnity, even
as her high bosom was kept up by the stiffest of "temberan busks"--a
piece of wood which, like all self-respecting Cornishwomen, she wore
thrust inside the front of her stays. Philip Jacka, who was now headman
at the farm, presided at the labourer's supper in the big barn, whither
everyone would presently repair, including Ishmael, if he were not too
sleepy. The Parson divided his attention between him and Mr. Lenine, who
was expanding to greater and greater geniality, always with that
something veiled behind his eyes. He encouraged Ishmael, trying to draw
him out when the Parson, seeing the child was, in nursery parlance, "a
bit above himself," would have kept him quiet.

"Well, young maister"--at the phrase in the miller's booming voice ears
seemed visibly to prick down the length of the table--"well, and how do
'ee like helpen' to Cry the Neck?"