Produced by David Edwards, Sue Fleming and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Transcriber's Note: There were a number of printer's errors within the text which have not been altered. IT MAY BE TRUE. A NOVEL. IN THREE VOLUMES. BY MRS. WOOD. VOL. II. London: T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER, 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE, 1865. [THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RESERVED.] IT MAY BE TRUE. CHAPTER I. NEWS FROM HOME "The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whate'er he can; And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man." LONGFELLOW. It was just sunset as Matthew the pikeman went out to receive toll from some one passing, or rather coming quickly up to the gate. It was market day at Brampton, so Matthew had to keep his ears open, and his wits about him, for generally he had a lazy post, with scarcely half a dozen calls during the day. A spare thin man was the occupier of the light cart now coming fast along the road; who as he drew near the gate threw the pence--without slackening his horse's pace--at least a foot from where the other was standing. "There's manners for you!" said Matthew, stooping to look for the money, "chucks the ha'pence to me as though I was a thief. Hates parting with 'em, I 'spose." "Or hates touching you with the ends of his fingers," said a voice at his side. "Good evening to yer, Mrs. Grey," said he, civilly rising and looking up, "Well, I'm blessed if I can find that last penny," and he counted over again those he held in his hand, "I'll make him give me another, next time I sets eyes on him, I know." "What's this?" said Goody Grey, turning something over with her stick. "That's it, and no mistake. Why I'd back yer to see through a brick wall, Ma'am." "There!" said she, not heeding his last remark, and pointing out the cart going slowly up a neighbouring hill, "he's too proud to shake hands with his betters, now. Pride, all pride, upstart pride, like the rest of the fools in this world. And he used to go gleaning in the very fields he now rides over so pompously." "Can yer call that to mind, Mrs. Grey?" asked Matthew, eyeing her keenly and searchingly. "Call it to mind! What's that to you? I never said I could, but I know it for a truth."