"Bide easy, an' doan't cry no more. My arm's round 'e, dearie. Theer, give awver, do! You've been dreamin' ugly along o' the poor supper you made, I reckon. Doan't 'e think nobody's hand against me now, for ban't so. Folks begin to see the manner of man I am; an' Miller knaws, which is all I care about. He've got a strong right arm workin' for him an' a tidy set o' brains, though I sez it; an' you might have a worse husband, tu, Phoebe; but theer--shut your purty eyes--I knaw they 'm awpen still, for I can hear your lashes against the sheet. An' doan't 'e go out in the early dews mushrooming no more, for 't is cold work, an' you've got to be strong these next months." She thought for a moment of telling him boldly concerning the legend spreading on every side; but, like others less near and dear to him, she feared to do so. Knowing Will Blanchard, not a man among the backbiters had cared to risk a broken head by hinting openly at the startling likeness between the child and himself; and Phoebe felt her own courage unequal to the task just then. She racked her brains with his dangers long after he was himself asleep, and finally she determined to seek Chris next morning and hear her opinion before taking any definite step. On the same night another pair of eyes were open, and trouble of a sort only less deep than that of the wife kept her father awake. Billy had taken an opportunity to tell his master of the general report and spread before him the facts as he knew them. The younger members of the household had retired early, and when Miller Lyddon took the cards from the mantelpiece and made ready for their customary game, Mr. Blee shook his head and refused to play. "Got no heart for cards to-night," he said. "What's amiss, then? Thank God I've heard little to call ill news for a month or two. Not but what I've fancied a shadow on my gal's face more'n wance." "If not on hers, wheer should 'e see it?" asked Mr. Blee eagerly." I've seed it, tu, an' for that matter theer's sour looks an' sighs elsewheer. People ban't blind, worse luck. 'Tis grawed to be common talk, an' I've fired myself to tell you, 'cause 'tis fitting an' right, an' it might come more grievous from less careful lips." "Go on then; an' doan't rack me longer'n you can help. Use few words." "Many words must go to it, I reckon. 'Tis well knawn I unfolds a bit o' news like the flower of the field--gradual and sure. You might have noticed that love-cheel by the name of Timothy 'bout the plaace? Him as be just of age to harry the ducks an' such-like." "A nice li'l bwoy, tu, an' fond of me; an' you caan't say he'm a love-cheel, knawin' nothin' 'bout him." "Love-cheel or changeling, 'tis all wan. Have'e ever thought 'twas coorious the way Blanchard comed by un?" "Certainly 'twas--terrible coorious." "You never doubted it?" "Why for should I? Will's truthful as light, whatever else he may be."