‘Eighteen thousand happy days,’ said he triumphantly, ‘agen six weeks o’ rough an’ tumble—pore George! Ah! well-a-day! But ’tis so, neighbours. Th’ Reverend, ’a figured it out fer Jane an’ me laast catterning-time. Eighteen thou— Gorm! but I should ha’ lost ’em all, if she hadn’t up an’ spoke out! I ne’er had no thought on’t, trew as th’ sun goos round th’ sky. But Jane, ’a gie me a red neckercher wan Hock-Monday. Thinks I, “Wat’s that fer?” An’ then ’a gie me a bag o’ pea-nuts, an’ sez I to mysel’, “’Tis a queer maid surelye!” An’ then ’a cooms along at harvest-time, an’ sez she, “’Enery Dawes, I ha’ jist heerd as ould Mistus Fenny ’ull gie up th’ malthouse cottage at Milemas, an’ seein’ as how you warnts me an’ I warnts you, ’twould be a pity to lose it; so let’s get arsted i’ church directly-minute,” sez she. Wi’ that, ’a putt both arms around th’ red neckercher, as I wore; an’ gie me wan, two, three—each chop, an’ wan i’ th’ middle. Lor’ bless ye! I knowed then what ’a meant, I did! I wur allers th’ sort as could see through a brick wall fur as most folk: never warnted no more ’n an ’int.’ ‘There agen!’ said old Tom Clemmer, after a pause. ‘Ye wur another o’ th’ lucky wans, ’Enery. Th’ best o’ wimmin plunked straight into your eye, in a manner o’ speakin’. Ah! but courtin’ days warn’t all pea-nuts an’ red handkerchers wi’ some o’ us, ’Enery! Dear! oh Lor’! what trouble I did ha’, surelye!’ He stopped, and sat for a while smiling down into the bowl of his pipe, and shaking his head. ‘But ye got her at laast, Tom!’ said Daniel Dray softly. He stole a commiserate glance round at the other members of the company, and had a silent, meaning nod from each. Old Tom Clemmer blushed, then laughed outright. ‘Trew, Dan’l! An’ well I reckermembers th’ day as ’a first come to Windlecombe—up to th’ farm-us yonder, though ’tis forty year ago. All o’ a heap, I wur, soon as I sot eyes on her. “Churn-maid?” sez I to mysel’, “’twunt be long afore y’are summut better’n that, down at th’ forge-cottage ’long o’ me!” Come Sunday, I runs agen her on th’ litten-path. “Marnin’, Mary!” sez I, an’ gies her th’ marigolds I’d picked fer her out o’ my own gay-ground; an’ down ’a throws ’em in th’ mud, an’ off wi’out so much as wured or look. Ah! a proud, fine maid ’a wur!—to be sure an’ all!’ Tom Clemmer knocked out his pipe upon his crutch. Then he threw an exultant glance about him.