In the morning he gave himself great store of practical and sensible advice. He told himself that he was too good a sportsman to interfere with another’s game and poach on another’s preserve; and he assured himself that he was too excellent a son to fall in love with a blacksmith’s daughter and sadden his mother’s declining days. He laughed at himself, and, when he met John after breakfast, spoke no more of the incident. He grew self-righteous toward noon and was secretly proud of himself for having withstood the fascination of Sarah Belworthy’s face and voice with such conspicuous ease. He told his conscience that the fancy was already dead; he felt that it would be interesting to meet the girl again; and he assured himself that her image in full, garish daylight must doubtless fall far below the perfection that it suggested half veiled under coming darkness. During that afternoon he marvelled a little at his own restlessness, then sought occupation and decided that it would be well to have his horse’s shoes roughed. He knew under this explicit determination lurked implicit desire to see the father of Sarah Belworthy, but he did not give his mind time to accuse him. He looked to his horse himself; he was very busy and whistled and addressed those he knew about him, as he trotted down to the smithy, feebly trying to deceive himself. A black cavern gaped out on the grey day, and from within came chime of anvil and hoarse breath of bellows. But it was not the spluttering soft red-hot iron that caught Tim’s eye. A lurid figure appeared and disappeared like magic as each pulse of the bellows woke a flame that lighted up the forge. This vision now gleamed in the blaze, then faded as the fire faded, and Timothy knew it for his pixie queen of the preceding night. Such an unexpected incident unnerved him; for a brief moment he thought of riding on; but he had already drawn rein and now dismounted, his heart throbbing like the fire. Sarah had brought her father some refreshments from home, and was amusing herself, as she had often done before, with the great leathern bellows, while a lad worked at the anvil and the smith rested from his labour and ate and drank. Smith Belworthy gloried more than common in two possessions; his daughter and his bass viol. Sometimes he mentioned one first, sometimes the other. To-day, having greeted Tim with great friendship and not forgetting the incident of the previous night, he bid Sarah step forward, much to her mortification, and drew young Chave’s attention to her as though she had been some item in an exhibition. “My darter, young sir, Sally by name. Theer’s a bowerly maid for ’e! An’ so gude as she’m purty; an’ so wise as she’m gude most times. Awnly eighteen year auld, though all woman, I assure ’e. But tokened, maister—tokened to a sandy-headed giant by name of Jan Aggett—her awnly silly deed, I reckon.” “The best fellow in the world,” said Timothy.