"No more of that nonsense, Morva; thou art a bit too forward, girl;
remember Will is thy master's son, and leave off thy jokes."

"Oh! she meant no harm," said Will apologetically; "'twill be hard if
we can't have our jokes, parson or no parson."

"Well, indeed," said Morva, without a shade of annoyance in her voice,
"'twill be hard at first; but I suppose I will get used to it some day.
Will you want me again to-night, Ann?"

"No; but to-morrow early," said Ann.

And Morva went singing through the farmyard, and along the fields to
the Cribserth; but to-day it was a hymn tune of mournful minor melody
which woke the echoes from moor and cliff. Rounding the ridge, the
same fair view greeted her eyes, as had chased away Will's ill-temper
on the preceding evening, and she sat a moment under the shadow of a
broom bush to ponder, for Morva was a girl of many thoughts though her
mind was perfectly uneducated, her heart and soul were alive with
earnest questions. Her seventeen years had been spent in close
companionship with a woman of exceptional character, and although the
girl did not share in the abnormal sensitiveness of her foster-mother,
she had gained from her intimacy with her, an unusual receptivity to
all the delicate influences of Nature. Sara claimed to be clairvoyant,
though she had never heard the word. Morva was clear seeing only; her
pure and simple spirit was undimmed by any mists of worldly ideas; no
subterfuge or plausible excuse ever hid the truth from her, and yet in
spite of this crystal innocence, she kept her engagement to Will a
secret from all the world, excepting Sara.