but as he walked more slowly, so did Sarah, though quite unconscious of the fact her old lover was at hand; and presently, to his astonishment, the girl stopped altogether, hesitated, and sat down by the wayside on a boulder. A determination not to avoid her now influenced Aggett. He approached, and, as he reached her and stood still, Sarah grew very pale and shewed some fear. “You, Jan! An’ settin’ forth ’pon a journey by the look of it. Wheer be gwaine?” “Out of this, anyway.” “For long?” “Can’t say as to that. I ban’t myself of late days—not my own man as I used to be. God knows wheer my changed temper’s like to drive me in the end.” “’Tis the same with me, Jan. I doan’t know my duty no clearer now than afore. I’m torn to pieces one way an’ another, an’ theer won’t be much left o’ me worth any man’s love come bimebye. Sometimes I think I’ll run right away next giglet-market{84} to Okehampton, come Our Lady’s Day, an’ hire myself out to the fust as axes, an’ never set eyes on this place more.” “Ban’t ’e happy yet, then? What more do ’e want?” “My love’s a curse wheer it falls. I loved ’e an’ brought ’e to bad ways; an’ Tim—I’ve set his nearest an’ dearest against un. I seed Farmer Chave essterday, an’ he urged me by the Book to give un up.” “’Struth! He said that, did he? But you didn’t fall in wi’ it, I reckon, else you wouldn’t be here now?” “’Tis all to difficult for the likes o’ me. What’s a poor maiden to do? If I takes Tim, he’ll be a ruined man, ’cordin’ to his father.” “’Twas a mean, cowardly trick to threaten ’e.” “But plain truth—I could see that. A terrible tantara theer’ll be in Bellever if he braves the anger of Farmer. I’ve prayed an’ prayed—Lard He knows how I’ve prayed—‘pon it, but—” “Prayers won’t help ’e; leastways, they didn’t me. I’ve lifted up far-reachin’ prayers in my time, I promise you, Sarah,—the best I could; but never no answer,—never so much as a Voice in the night to help a chap.” “You done right to pray an’ you was led right, though you didn’t know it. An’ you’m well thought of for what you’ve done still, despite your fallin’ away arterward.” “Never mind ’bout me. I be gwaine far ways off, an’ so like’s not us’ll never set eyes ’pon each other more. For me, I’d so soon end all as not. But for mother I should have got out of it afore now, for I ban’t feared o’ dyin’, an’ would go out o’ hand this minute. But you? Can’t the man help ’e? Do he know your fix? What the devil be he made of? Sugar?” “He doan’t know yet that I’ve spoken wi’ his faither. An’ he’ve been careful to hide that his folks was against me. I s’pose ’tis natural they should be so.” “Ess—not knowin’ you.”