The boy stopped, for Sarah’s great grey eyes and red mouth awoke something in him. He felt angry because the blood flowed to his freckled face; but she was cool as the little spring that rose in their path—cool as the crystal water that bubbled up and set a tiny column of silver sand shivering among the red sundews and bog asphodels at their feet. “Marnin’ to ’e,” said John, who already knew the small stranger by sight. “Marnin’, Jan Aggett.” “An’ what might your name be, if I may ax?” “I be called Sarah, but Sally most times; an’ I be wool-gatherin’ same as you.” “Hast-a got gude store?” “But little yet.” “I’ll shaw ’e all the best plaaces, if you mind to let me.” “Thank ’e, Jan Aggett. My mother’s a gert spinner.” “An’ my mother’s a gert spinner tu.” “Not so gert as mine, I reckon.” “Never was better’n my mother.” “Mine be better, I tell ’e! Her spins black wool an’ white together into butivul, braave grey yarn; an’ auld Churdles Ash—him what’s got the loom to Widecombe, do buy it for money, wi’ gladness.” “Ban’t much black wool in these paarts; an’ my mother knits her worsted into clothes for me. But I’ll share what I find with you now.” “I lay I’ll find a plenty for myself.” “I lay you will. An’ I’ll shaw ’e wheer the blackberries be in autumn time, an’ wheer the best hurts be got out Laughter Tor way; an’ wheer the properest rexens for cannel-making{10} do graw.” “Sure you’m a very kind-fashioned bwoy, Jan Aggett.” “You’d best to call me just ‘Jan,’ like other folks.” “So I will; an’ you’d best to call me ‘Sally.’” “Burned if I doan’t then! An’ us’ll be friends.” From that time forward the lonely children became close companions; and when years passed and Sarah ripened to maidenhood, while John brought forth a straw-coloured moustache and thick beard that matched his sandy locks, the pair of them were already regarded by their own generation as surely bound for marriage in due season. There came an afternoon when the girl had reached the age of eighteen and John was just arrived at man’s estate. They worked together during harvest time, and the thatcher, standing on a stack ladder, watched the girl where she was gleaning and likened her pink sunbonnet to some bright flower nodding over the gold stubbles. Presently she came to him with a bundle of good corn under her arm. “’Tis long in the straw this year,” she said. “You must thresh it for me when you can and hand me the straw for plaiting. I can sell all the hats an’ bonnets tu, as I’m like to weave. An’ parson do allus give me half a crown each year for a new straw hat.” John came down from his perch and picked up the little sheaf. Then, the day’s work done, they dawdled up the hill, and Sarah, hot and weary, after toil in great sunshine, sometimes took John’s hand, like a little child, when the road revealed no other person.