Again she stopped, but only for breath. "They never answered my writings. Faither wouldn't an' mother didn't dare. But when I was near my time, Timothy, reckoning they'd yield then if ever, arranged to be in Chagford when I should be brought to bed. Yet 'twas ordained differ'nt, an' the roundy-poundy, wheer the caravan was drawed up when the moment corned, be just round theer on Metherill hill, as you knaws. So it happened right under the very walls of Newtake. In the stone circle you comed; an' by night arterwards, sweatin' for terror, your gran'mother, as had heard tell of it, sneaked from Newtake to kiss me an' press you to her body. Faither never knawed till long arter; an' though mother used to say she heard un forgive me on his death-bed, 'twas her awn pious wish echoing in her awn ears I reckon. But that's all awver an' done." Mrs. Blanchard now sank into silent perambulation of the deserted chambers. In the kitchen the whitewash was grimy, the ceiling and windows unclean. Ashes of a peat fire still lay upon the cracked hearthstone, and a pair of worn-out boots, left by a tramp or the last tenant, stood on the window-sill. Dust and filth were everywhere, but no indication of dampness or decay. "A proper auld rogue's-roost of dirt 'tis just now," said Will; "but a few pound spent in the right way will do a deal for it." "An' soap an' water more," declared Mrs. Blanchard, escaping from her reverie. "What's to be spent landlord must spend," she continued. "A little whitewash, and some plaster to fill them holes wheer woodwork's poking through the ceiling, an' you'll be vitty again. 'Tis lonesome-like now, along o' being deserted, an' you'll hear the rats galloping an' gallyarding by night, but 'twill soon be all it was again--a dear li'l auld plaace, sure enough!" She eyed the desolation affectionately. "Theer's money in it, any way, for what wan man can do another can." "Aye, I hope so, I b'lieve 'tis so; but you'll have to live hard, an' work hard, an' be hard, if you wants to prosper here. Your gran'faither stood to the work like a giant, an' the sharpest-fashion weather hurt him no worse than if he'd been a granite tor. Steel-built to his heart's core, an' needed to be." "An' I be a stern, far-seein' man, same as him. 'Tis generally knawn I'm no fule; and my heart's grawed hard, tu of late days, along wi' the troubles life's brought." She shook her head. "You'm your faither's son, not your gran'faither's. Tim was flesh an' blood, same as you. T'other was stone. Stone's best, when you've got to fight wi' stone; but if flesh an' blood suffers more, it joys more, tu. I wouldn't have 'e differ'nt--not to them as loves 'e, any way."