Hazel! Marry _me_!'

His voice shook. At the mysterious grief in his face--a grief that was
half rage, and the more pitiful for that--she began to sob. Abel came
up.

'A mourning-party, seemingly,' he said, holding his lantern so as to
light each face in turn.

'I want to marry your daughter.'

Abel roared.

'Another? First 'er bags a parson and next a squire!'

'Farmer.'

'It'll be the king on his throne next. Laws, girl! you're like beer and
treacle.'

'You've not answered me,' said Reddin.

'She's set.'

'Eh?'

'Set. Bespoke. Let.'

'She's a right to change her mind.'