“So now ye ’ave come back to look arter the young ’ooman yourself, eh? I call it real ’ansome of ye, Charley, on’y it’s a bit late.” There was a murmur of “Hush!” all round, but the speaker, who seemed to have had a drop too much, would not be silenced. “Preston ’ere’s the one to tell ye most obout _’er_,” laughed he. “’E ’ad the last buss. That old rascal up at the Farm’d ’ave made ’er wed ’im, but ’e can thank ’is stars ’e’s well out o’ _that_.” Folk surrounded the mischievous talker, and argued with him, and Preston accosted young Chiswick. “Don’t ye believe a word of it,” said he in an undertone. “Your girl wouldn’t ’ave none o’ me. She told me so flat. And I guess that’s why she runned away.” “Thank ye,” said Charley huskily, holding out his hand which the other grasped. “I’d never ’ave asked ’er if I’d ha’ known the rights of it,” added the young farmer, “but I live over t’other side o’ the county, and I hadn’t heard no talk then. But she were true to ye, and if she’d ’ave ’ad a sight o’ that letter....” “Ay,” said the lad eagerly, “that was my letter ... what of it?” “Why, t’ old villain burned it afore ’er very eyes, and she not read a word of it,” said Preston. Charley clutched the counter; he was dizzy. He knew now that his last hope had vanished: it was impossible that she should know where to seek him in London. His head dropped forward. “But you mustn’t believe one word o’ what they say agin ’er,” began the farmer once more, “for I’d take my oath....” He did not finish his sentence, for the head went up again. “Say agin ’er?” repeated the lad slowly, but in a clear voice. Preston looked foolish, but the meddler in the background, whom the peacemakers had not been able to quiet, pushed up to the bar. “Well, ’say agin ’er’” mimicked he. “And what shouldn’t they say agin ’er? You’re well out of it, my lad, and Preston ’ere too. She’s no better nor she should be. Why, ’twas plain to every eye.” The boy’s face went crimson and then dead white again. “Ye lie,” said he in a clear voice again, looking round steadily on the little company: “ye lie.” For a moment there was a disagreeable silence, and in that silence there flashed suddenly into the lover’s mind the true explanation of this awful aspersion upon his girl. He was a father! More than ever now must he find her. He would find her, but first of all he would avenge her. He stood stock still, and those who watched him wondered perhaps at the strange variety of expression that flitted across his face. Bess was true to him, Bess was the mother of his child ... and he waited for his adversary to come on. For he knew well enough that the word he had spoken would not pass unnoticed; the man to whom he had said it was in drink, and his rage was the quicker and the more unreasoning. But lest there should be any mistake, Charley repeated the word. “You lie,” he said again. “And if ye don’t like that ye may come on.”