“Not at all,” said the larger-minded man. “’Tis a poor spirit as can’t stomach a kindness without worriting to pay it back. Us’ll have a chance of doing her a good turn for sartain, living at her door same as we do. Just let things go their own way, an’ they’ll go right. We’m all Christian creatures, thank God, an’ there’s no reason because we live in a outlandish sort of place like this here that we should forget it.” “All the same,” declared his plump, red girl, pouting, “I could wish as Mr. Mogridge hadn’t spoke them words. He’ve hurt my pride. I wasn’t going to jump down their throats. I’m not that sort.” “’Twas a bit chilly like, perhaps; but he’m older than us, an’ wiser, an’ he meant well.” “He’m not wiser than you be, anyway. I believe, if us knowed, you’d find you made better money than what he do.” “Us’ll leave it at that, then; an’ now us’ll go to sleep, if you please.” CHAPTER II Within a month Honor Haycraft and Avisa Mogridge were the closest of friends, for, despite the water-bailiff’s caution and the younger man’s attempt to profit by it, their wives took the matter into their own hands. Both husbands were away all day at work; their cottages stood half a mile distant from any others, and the two lonely women soon struck up a close and intimate relation. Mrs. Mogridge was honourable, truthful, warm-hearted and affectionate; she had two young children, both girls; she loved her elderly husband dearly; she knew the life-history of every man and woman in Postbridge; and she related the affairs of the village with full detail for the benefit of Honor, who was an Exeter girl, and did not know the people of the Moor. “I can talk straight to ’e,” said Mrs. Mogridge, “for you come without one particle of feeling against anybody or for anybody. So I’ll tell you what they all be like down-along, an’ who you can trust an’ who you can’t trust, so far as I know ’em. You’ll go your own way, but ’tis never any harm to hear another opinion.” Thus Mrs. Haycraft, instead of forming independent conclusions from experience, took her view of the new neighbours and environment from another woman; and this was a happier circumstance than might be guessed, because Avisa Mogridge possessed plenty of good sense and a kindly heart, whereas, though the red girl’s heart was warm enough, her head was rather weak, and of sense, or patience, or knowledge of human nature she had none to name. She was a superstitious woman, full of old saws and sayings. If she met a single magpie, she went in fear for a week. Her husband tried to laugh her out of such folly, but he never succeeded. And so the friendship ripened and the men looked on. In secret Henry Mogridge prophesied a catastrophe, as sure as women were women all the world over; while Abel Haycraft listened and nodded, but hoped the water-bailiff might be mistaken.