“Nay,” he returned gruffly, “I’ll be gettin’ home-along now; I only come so far to carry this here posy.” Depositing his fragrant sheaf upon the table, he nodded right and left at mother and daughter, and withdrew. “Dear! Well, to be sure! Dear heart alive, Bethia, ye could ha’ knocked I down wi’ a feather when he come marchin’ in. Lard ha’ mercy, maidy, you be clever to ha’ got Jacob Fowler for a beau. That there man do fair hate women of all sarts. There, he do never so much as look at one--and to think of him a-walkin’ all that long ways jist for to carry them flowers! He did give you the flowers, too, I suppose?” “Yes,” returned her daughter; “but you mustn’t call him my beau, please, Mother. He only meant to be polite.” “Well, I’m sure he did never try to be polite to any maid afore,” returned Mrs. Masters with conviction. “They do say he were crossed i’ love when he were a young ’un. Did he give ’ee the money, child?” “Yes, Mother, and was very nice and kind altogether. I think he was sorry for Father when I told him how ill he’d been.” “Oh, to be sure, that’s it,” agreed her mother jocosely. “All they flowers be for Father, too, I d’ ’low. Come, let’s fetch ’em up to ’en.” Poor old Masters, ill though he was, chuckled feebly on hearing the marvellous tale, and expressed in quavering tones his belief that his daughter was a-doin’ pretty well for herself. The girl, who had lived till now absolutely heart-whole, could not repress a certain flutter of excitement, and passed the next few days in a state of expectancy; but Jacob Fowler gave no further sign of life. Though he appeared at church on Sunday, he kept his face religiously turned away from the pretty tax-gatherer’s, and at the conclusion of the service rushed from the door without pausing to look round. Bethia bit her lip, and instead of dallying a little, as was her custom, to chat with one or other of her acquaintance, hastened home. “Were Farmer Fowler there, my dear?” inquired her mother. “Yes, but he didn’t speak to me--he didn’t take a bit of notice of me. Put that notion out of your head, Mother--there’s nothing at all between him and me.” Soon the attention of the little household was entirely absorbed by a more acute and immediate cause of trouble: poor old Masters, after a brave struggle, and in spite of the adjurations of his neighbours, found himself unable to “hold on”; he loosed his feeble grasp of life suddenly at last, and went out, as his wife sorrowfully remarked, “like the snoff of a candle.”