“It’s either that or leaving t’ village if he’s to keep in with Nancy,” he said. “She’s her father’s child, and Tom Clegg was a stiff-necked ’un and could never see no way but his own. Not but what he had his good points, and at his worst he was a lot better than Baldwin; but when he set himself it ’ud ha’ taken powder to shift him. I don’t want to wrong t’ lass, and maybe I don’t know her well enough; but it strikes me she’ll turn awk’ard if Jagger crosses her, and there’s no telling what lengths a lass like her’ll go to.” “Then let her go,” said Hannah impatiently. “She’ll be no great loss ’at I can see, barring ’at she’s a tidy bit o’ money. Jagger says he reckons naught o’ t’ money; but if you scrape t’ gilt off Nancy there’s very little left, if you ask me. I could find him——” “I daresay you could,” her father interrupted again. “But Jagger’ll bait his own hook, lass, and either land his fish or lose it. We’ll get back to where we started from; if he begs on again, I doubt she’ll scorn him; if he leaves t’ village——” The kettle boiled over at that moment and Maniwel rose and lifted it on to the hob. When he sat down again Jagger was standing on the hearth. “Well, what if I leave t’ village?” he asked with a firmer note in his voice than either his father or sister had expected to find there. “It’s me you’re talking about, I suppose—me and Nancy? Beg on again I won’t, so that’s flat; whether she scorns me or she doesn’t. Baldwin and me’s parted company for good; but what if I leave t’ village?” He seated himself in grannie’s chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and looking with a steady gaze into his father’s eyes—eyes that rested complacently upon the stalwart frame and supple hands and that only became slightly shadowed when they settled on the face. Jagger’s lips were closed firmly, and though the eyebrows narrowed into a frown, there was scarcely a suggestion of sulkiness about the mouth, and the whole expression appeared to indicate a fixity of purpose that had been wanting the night before. “If you leave t’ village,” the father replied, “you leave her behind, and what’ll happen then——” “But suppose I _don’t_ leave her behind?” he broke in. “Suppose I take her with me? She’s sick to death of Keturah, and Baldwin nags at her till she’s almost made up her mind to finish with ’em. She’s had a taste of freedom while she’s been at her uncle’s, and is beginning to want a home of her own—she’s as good as said so. I’ve naught but my two hands, I know; but pay’s good in t’ towns and if she cared to help me to furnish a little home to start with it ’ud be much if I couldn’t make ends meet and tie. If only you two and grannie could bring yourselves to go with us——”