“Maybe, but who be gude enough for the likes o’ she? My li’l rose of Sharon her be; an’ the husband as I’d have chose should have been somebody, ’stead of nobody. But theer she is, an’ I lay you’ve never seed a purtier piece in all your travels, have ’e now?” The blacksmith grinned affectionately, held Sarah’s arm in his grimy grip and surveyed his daughter as he had gazed upon some prize beast or a triumph of the anvil. “Doan’t heed un,” burst out Sally, her grey eyes clouded, and her face as red as her gown. “Never did no girl have such a gert gaby of a faither as me. His wan goose be a royal swan, an’ he do reckon all the countryside must see wi’ his silly eyne an’ think same as him—fond auld man!” The cold light of day and the forge-glow struck her face alternately as she moved. Young Chave was a man and not a stock or a stone. Therefore he seized the hour and answered her remark. “You shouldn’t blame your father for telling the truth, young mistress,” he said. “Even though it suit you not to hear it. Yet when ’tis so pleasant and so generally accepted, it might well be agreeable to you.” “Theer’s butivul scholar’s English,” chuckled Mr. Belworthy; “theer’s high gen’leman’s language, an’ the case in a nutshell!” Sarah grew shy and uncomfortable. Angry she could not be before Tim’s compliments, and how to answer him without contradicting him she did not know. So she turned to her father instead. “Be gwaine to eat an’ drink up your food or ban’t ’e, faither?” “All in gude time. I’ve got to rough the young gen’leman’s horse’s shoes fust.” “Be in no hurry,” said Tim. “I can wait awhile.” “I can’t then,” declared Sarah, ungraciously, and so marched off in a fine flutter of mingled emotions. Mr. Belworthy looked up from the hoof between his knees and winked with great significance at Timothy. “Kittle cattle—eh? Look at the walk of her! Theer ban’t another girl this side Dartymoor as travels like that. ’Tis light as a bird, an’ you’d doubt if her’d leave a footprint ’pon new-fallen snow.” “So Diana walked,” declared Tim. “Did her? A Plymouth maiden, I s’pose?” asked Mr. Belworthy, with simulated indifference. “No—a goddess of ancient times—just a moonbeam shadow, you know. Not a splendid flesh and blood beauty like your daughter.” There was no sound but the rasping of the file; then Belworthy spoke again. “Tokened to a man as’ll never rise much beyond Bellever Barton cow yard—that’s the mischief of it. Her, as might have looked so high, seein’ as the body of her an’ the faace of her be what they be. Not a word ’gainst the chap, mind. Brains is the gift of God, to be given or held back according to His gude pleasure.” “Such a clever girl, too, I’ll warrant. What did she see in John Aggett, I wonder?”