A woman took her own shawl and set it over her shoulders. “Dinna shame us, lassie,” she said; and “Ay, ay--where d’ye say he lives?” Jessie replied. “Best tak’ her to our spare cham’er, Ellen,” a man’s voice said; but Jessie called again for the bailiff: he was a harmless man, wi’ a pleasant word for folk; his oaks and pines were but half cut; nay, they had not started with the pines.... “I’ll tak’ ye to th’ bailiff, dearie. Come, then,” said the woman who had given her the shawl; and suddenly Jessie began to tremble. Without glancing once at Willie, she crossed to the narrow entry of a passage, laid down the dog’s body, and then turned to the woman. “Come, make haste,” she said. She passed the lieutenant without seeming to see him. The two women turned into a dark lane that was deep rutted with carts, as if it led to a farm. By and by Jessie began to run. Through a bare orchard a candle shone in the bailiff’s window. They found him in his comfortable kitchen smoking his strong tobacco. The two pieces of wood he had brought from the Ladyshaws lay on the table before him, and with the point of his penknife he was counting the rings of the tree’s growth. “A hundred and ninety-six--a hundred and ninety-seven--a hundred and ninety-eight,” he said, counting aloud; and when he got to the two hundredth ring he stuck the point of his penknife into the wood and looked up mildly and enquiringly. Jessie’s railing was past now; she thought no more of Nellie. “They’re taking th’ men--th’ press--that’s cutting the trees; they’re taking ’em down th’ street now,” she announced shortly; “go stop ’em.” “Men?” the bailiff enquired, quite unruffled: “Oh, ay, the Pillers. I remember ye were with ’em. Dear, dear, now; that’s awk’ard. Two more days o’ this weather and the leaves’ll be breaking out everywhere. We shall lose the price o’ the bark--wi’out we could prosecute for it--no--now that’s vexing.... Ye’d see this piece of oak this morning? Of course. I’ve counted two hundred; think o’ that! Two hundred year sin’ them letters were cut, and more to count yet.” “But they’re taking ’em--Willie and Jerry,” Jessie murmured, dazed. “Like enow ye wouldn’t know Willie’s name--it were him cut them pieces for ye.... Oh, man!” she cried suddenly, “he’s my lover--chance ye’re wed yoursel’----” “Eh?” said the bailiff; “No.” “Oh, think, wi’ your talk o’ two hundred year--happen lovers cut them marks, same as ye’ve cut a lass’s name on a tree!” “Them that I heard tell of was King’s marks,” the bailiff mused, “but ay, happen this would be some lad----” Jessie dropped face foremost on the table, and the fisherwoman spoke sharply. “Come out o’ your moon-trances, Matthew Hudson!” she cried; “think what can be done. They’ll up anchor in a couple of hours wi’ th’ turn o’ th’ tide.--Wad th’ Warden stop ’em?” Jessie moaned softly on the table, and the bailiff deliberated. “Ay--no--there’s no knowing; the Warden might.”