“Somebody must have took un to Princetown,” said Milly, outwardly calm though her heart beat hard. “Theer I found un none the worse, poor twoad. Now he’s twice ‘Corban,’ dear faither, an’ twice my gift to ’e.” The old man was entirely deceived, as anybody even of keen sight might well have been. The curious friendship of the cat also aided his delusion. He stroked it, and it stood up and put its front paws upon his necktie and rubbed noses. “Glory be! Now us’ll go home-along,” said Mr. Sage. His dim eyes were dimmer for tears; but he could not take them off the creature. His hands also held it close. Milly picked up the reins and turned the brown pony homeward, much to his surprise and joy. And ‘Corban’ II., as though ’specially directed by Providence, played its part nobly, and maintained the imposition. Mr. Sage begged Amos Oldreive’s pardon, and Amos, for his part, calmed his conscience by assuring Noah that henceforth his cat was more than welcome to a young pheasant whenever it had a mind to one. A little strangeness on the part of the returned wanderer seemed natural in Mr. Sage’s opinion. That he had apparently developed one or two new habits was also reasonable in a cat with as much new experience of the world. And meantime the wedding preparations were pushed on. At the end of the week Ted Oldreive came home from Vitifer for Sunday; and he expressed joy at the sight of ‘Corban,’ once more the glory of his old haunts. But the young man’s face changed when Noah and the cat had departed in company, and a look of frank alarm made Milly tremble before danger. “Why, what’s amiss, sweetheart?” she asked, nervously. “All danger be past now, an’ the creature’s settled down as homely an’ pleasant as need be.” “Matter enough,” said Ted; “’tis a ewe cat!” “A ewe cat! Oh, Ted, doan’t say that!” “’Tis so; an’ God send her doan’t have chets ’fore we’m married, else Postbridge won’t hold your dear faither—nor Dartymoor neither.” “A PICKAXE, AND A SPADE, A SPADE” CHAPTER I Nearly two hundred years ago, when Miser Merle departed from life, his little corner of earth took heart and breathed again. Not that he had raised any very mighty mound of gold to stand between himself and the sunshine, but, according to his power, he had followed the traditional road of those similarly cursed, and though the circumstances of his life, as innkeeper of a small hostelry at Two Bridges by Dart on the Devon moors, made any huge accumulation impossible, none the less he was a right miser in grain, and died without a tear to balance his two thousand pounds of money. Some heartily cursed him on his unknown way; not one pretended to mourn his passing. His wife was long dead—starved with cold on a winter night, so certain gossips loved to tell; his son the miser had driven out of England, and subsequent rumours of the young man’s death troubled him not at all.