"Jan Grimbal's a very differ'nt fashion of man to his brother; that I saw in a moment when they bided with us for a week, till the 'Three Crowns' could take 'em in. I hate Jan--hate him cruel; but I like Martin. He puts me in mind o' you, Clem, wi' his nice way of speech and tender quickness for women. But it's Phoebe we'm speaking of. I think you should write stern to Will an' frighten him. It ban't fair fightin', that poor, dear Phoebe 'gainst the will o' two strong men." "Well, she's had paltry food for a lover since he went away. He's got certain ideas, and she'll hear direct when--but there, I must shut my mouth, for I swore by fantastic oaths to say nothing." "He ought to write, whether or no. You tell Will that Jan Grimbal be about building a braave plaace up under Whiddon, and is looking for a wife at Monks Barton morning, noon, an' evening. That's like to waken him. An' tell him the miller's on t'other side, and clacking Jan Grimbal into Phoebe's ear steadier than the noise of his awn water-wheel." "And she will grow weak, mark me. She sees that red-brick place rising out of the bare boughs, higher and higher, and knows that from floor to attics all may be hers if she likes to say the word. She hears great talk of drawing-rooms, and pictures, and pianos, and greenhouses full of rare flowers, and all the rest--why, just think of it!" "Ban't many gals as could stand 'gainst a piano, I daresay." "I only know one--mine." Chris looked at him curiously. "You 'm right. An' that, for some queer reason, puts me in mind of the other wan, Martin Grimbal. He was very pleasant to me." "He's too late, thank God!" "Ess, fay! An' if he'd comed afore 'e, Clem, he'd been tu early. Theer's awnly wan man in the gert world for me." "My gypsy!" "But I didn't mean that. He wouldn't look at me, not even if I was a free woman. 'T was of you I thought when I talked to Mr. Grimbal. He'm well-to-do, and be seekin' a house in the higher quarter under Middledown. You an' him have the same fancy for the auld stones. So you might grow into friends--eh, Clem? Couldn't it so fall out? He might serve to help--eh? You 'm two-and-thirty year auld next February, an' it do look as though they silly bees ban't gwaine to put money enough in the bank to spell a weddin' for us this thirty year to come. Theer's awnly your aunt, Widow Coomstock, as you can look to for a penny, and that tu doubtful to count on." "Don't name her, Chris. Good Lord! poor drunken old thing, with that crowd of hungry relations waiting like vultures round a dying camel! Never think of her. Money she has, but I sha'n't see the colour of it, and I don't want to." "Well, let that bide. Martin Grimbal's the man in my thought." "What can I do there?"