Will was nettled. “And who asked for your granddaughter?” he retorted. “Besides, you’re quite right. I married dozens of wives in America—all widows too!” The veteran chuckled afresh. “Dash my buttons! How you do mind me o’ your feyther when he was your age—always had his little joke. Not that Oi count him growed up yet, he havin’ never cut his wisdom teeth, but gooin’ off as skittish as a colt arter peculiar doctrines and seducin’ sperrits.” “Oh, there you are, Gran’fer!” And pat as to a cue a most “seducin’ sperrit” flashed, like a shaft of sunshine, through the half-open door into the gloomy old barn. But she was aproned and bare-armed to the elbow, and rain-spotted, and a ringlet of hair was blown almost across her mouth, and the instant she perceived Will, she drew back in confusion, patting her hair tidy. “Sorry, Gran’fer. I didn’t know you had visitors.” But Will, to whom the sense she conveyed of brooms and dusters was sweetly reassuring of a still unsubmerged femininity, cried out as hastily: “No, I was just going. You’ll get drowned.” And he tried to pass her. But the old man dramatically extended the uncocked hat. “Howd hard, sonny.” Will, disconcerted, found his feet sticking to the floor. “He’s writ me a letter, imperent little Willie, and brought it hisself.” Then a flash of amusement toned down the asperity. “Aldoe he had his tongue with him!” And the old man chuckled. “Shall I read it?” murmured Jinny, putting forth her hand. “Nay, nay!” He snatched the note back and tore it into careful pieces. “Ain’t fit to be seen.” “No more am I,” said Jinny with an uneasy laugh, and again she essayed to escape. “Stop!” commanded the ancient, kindled afresh. “Willie’s got to tell you what’s in they scraps.” Will was silent. “Don’t stand gawmin’. Out with the abomination.” But no sound issued from the young man’s lips. It was not merely that this new housemaidenly figure seemed safe enough even in Chelmsford, wrapped in its own sweet domesticity, and that adjurations designed for the minx bade fair to blunt themselves against this sober angelhood; but that the girl’s radiance against the littered gloom within and the rainfall without, robbed him literally of breath. “Speak out, Willie!” said the Gaffer, softened to contempt by his obvious confusion. “Perhaps he _hasn’t_ brought his tongue,” suggested Jinny, recovering herself. “Then Oi’ll lend him mine. You ain’t to goo to Che’msford, he says.” “But I don’t want to go to Chelmsford, Gran’fer. Why should I go to Chelmsford?” “To get his horn, you baggage. And he don’t be wantin’ it.” “Oh, but he ordered it—it’s too late now.” “Ay,” said Daniel Quarles, “and goo you shall to git it ef the adder has to bite Methusalem’s heels.” “But I don’t have to go to Chelmsford for it!” “You said you’d go to Chelmsford,” burst out Will at last. “Nothing of the sort.”