“Clever in a way, though not so full of wit as my cheel might have been prophesied. Me bein’ generally reckoned a man of might on the bass viol Sundays. But Sally’s just Sally, an’ I wouldn’t change an eyelash of her. Power over musical instruments ban’t given to women-kind, I reckon; though for plain singin’ wi’ other maidens in a plaace o’ worship, she’m a tower o’ strength. An’ she be just a polished corner o’ the temple prayer-times, no matter what gentlefolks comes theer. As to why she took on wi’ Jan, I lay her couldn’t give ’e reasons any more’n me. But so ’tis, an’ though it mayn’t never come to axing out in church, yet lovers be stubborn in their awn conceits. An’ so—you being Farmer Chave’s awn son an’ heir—might, if you was that way minded, up an’ say a word for Jan.” “So I will then. He’s a right good fellow.” “’Tis the season o’ herald angels, when hearts are warm, you see. An’ six shillin’ a week do taake a terrible long time to goody. Of course, Jan gets cider, an’ corn at market price tu; yet wi’out offence ’tis tail corn most times an’ not stomachable—stuff as doan’t harden muscle.” “My father would never give his men tail corn,” cried Timothy, indignantly. “Wouldn’t he? Then I was wrong. I wouldn’t go against un for all the tin hid on Dartymoor. But theer ’tis. I doan’t see how the man’s gwaine to save against a wife an’ fam’ly unless his wage be bettered. An’ I don’t want to see my darter grow into an auld virgin mumphead while he’s tryin’ to scrape brass enough to give her a home. ’Tis wisht work such waitin’.” “I’ll not forget John Aggett. He’s a very well-meaning man, and honest, and a splendid shot.” “So he is then, an’ a gude shot as you say, though I’ll allus be sorry as he brought down my li’l bird.” “If she loves him, ’twill fall out all right, you know, Belworthy.” “If love could taake the place o’ victuals an’ a stone cottage an’ a snug peat hearth, it might fall out right; but I’m sorry for the maiden’s love as have got to burn at full pitch o’ heat year arter year wi’ marriage no nearer. ’Tis a withering thing for a girl to love on, knawin’ in her secret heart as each winter doan’t pass awver her for nought but leaves its awn touch o’ coldness an’ greyness. She hides it from the man, o’ course—from everyone else tu, for that matter,—but ’tis with her all the seasons through an’ dims her eye, an’ furrows her smooth young forehead at night-times unbeknawnst to them that love her best.”