Isaac Grimshaw was something of a sylvan diplomat, a suave, sweet-voiced old sinner, who could bleat texts or snarl out fantastic oaths as the emergency required. He had sworn at Dan for laying his hands on one of the gentry and risking his bull neck for a wench’s lips, and had driven his giant of a son cowering from old Ursula’s cottage. Then he had entered in and preached to the dame in the ingle-nook, wagging a long forefinger and brushing his white hair back from his forehead. Squire Jeffray must be appeased, tickled into a good temper. That was the mark towards which Isaac winged his words. In due course he took the two candles in the brass sticks from the mantle-shelf, and lighting them with a fagot from the fire, bade Ursula open the bedroom door and call Bess out. The patriarch went in mincingly, set one candle on a table by the bed, and the other on an oaken press. He stood very humbly before Richard Jeffray, his white hair waving over his forehead, his clean-shaven mouth sweet and benignant as the mouth of some tender-souled old priest. “I trust your honor is feeling comfortable.” “Not much the worse, Grimshaw, for your son’s stick.” Isaac rubbed his palms together and beamed. “I have come to ask your honor’s pardon, sir.” The patriarch sniffed pathetically, and fidgeted as he stood with limp humbleness beside the bed. How could Jeffray appear angry with such an old fellow whose soul was overwhelmed in contrition for his son’s misdeeds. “Do not vex yourself, Grimshaw, on my account,” said the master of Rodenham, frankly, “your son’s blood was up, and I drew my sword on him. He is a dangerous fellow, Grimshaw, and beyond your handling, I imagine.” Isaac bowed his head into his hands. “The Lord help me, sir,” he said, sobbing, “he’s a wild lad, your honor, but not bad at heart.” “This may be a lesson to him, Grimshaw.” “Please God, sir, it will. Bess, sir, Bess is a good wench, but she has a tongue that would drive a young man crazy.” “I don’t blame her, Grimshaw, so far as your son is concerned.” “Dear Heaven, no, your honor. I will see to it, sir; I will speak to Dan like a father. He shall not pester the wench, and she shall be taught to bridle her tongue.” “If she has a temper, Grimshaw, you can best mend it by teaching your son to mind his business.” “True, your honor, true; it is good to hear you speak so kindly.” Jeffray lay quiet a moment, while Isaac still sniffed and fidgeted beside the bed, watching the master of Rodenham with his shrewd, gray eyes. Old Ursula was clattering her pans in the kitchen, humming some old ditty, while Bess, her brown hands white with flour, was making pastry for Squire Jeffray’s supper. “Grimshaw,” said the younger man, at last. “Sir?” “I shall not set the law against your son.” “God bless your honor’s noble heart.” “If there is more trouble betwixt him and the girl—” Isaac Grimshaw was all reverent attention. “You may like to find a good home for her—” “Ah—your honor—”