"Nor she ain't what I bet she would be," said Bainton, heedless as to whether his companion heard him or not; "I've lost 'arf a crown to my old 'ooman, for I sez, sez I, 'She's bound to be a 'igh an' mighty stuck-up sort o' miss wot won't never 'ave a wurrd for the likes of we,' an' my old 'ooman she sez to me: 'Go 'long with ye for a great silly gawk as ye are; I'll bet ye 'arf a crown she won't be!' So I sez 'Done,'--an' done it is. For she's just as sweet as clover in the spring, an' seems as gentle as a lamb,--though I reckon she's got a will of 'er own and a mind to do what she likes, when and 'ow she likes. I'll 'ave a fine bit o' talk with Passon 'bout her as soon as iver he gives me the chance." "Ay, good-night it is," observed Spruce, placidly taking all these remarks as evening adieux,--"Yon moon's got 'igh, and it's time for bed if so be we rises early. Easy rest ye!" Bainton nodded. It was all the response necessary. The two then separated, going their different ways to their different homes, Spruce having to get back to the Manor and a possible curtain- lecture from his wife. All the village was soon asleep,--and eleven o'clock rang from the church-tower over closed cottages in which not a nicker of lamp or candle was to be seen. The moonbeams shed a silver rain upon the outlines of the neatly thatched roofs and barns--illumining with touches of radiance as from heaven, the beautiful 'God's House' which dominated the whole cluster of humble habitations. Everything was very quiet,--the little hive of humanity had ceased buzzing; and the intense stillness was only broken by the occasional murmur of a ripple breaking from the river against the pebbly shore.