Just at this point Adam had reached a narrow gate which opened into a grassy lane, leading to Marlpit Wood, the scene of his labours for the day. There, bestriding a handsome bay, and in the act of attempting to open the gate with the handle of his riding whip, was a fine, handsome young gentleman, whose dark eyes gleamed with good temper, and whose general appearance was indicative of rank, high spirits, and kindliness of heart. This was none other than Philip Fuller, and no sooner did Adam Olliver set his eyes upon him than he resolved there and then to fulfil his promise to Judith to “see about it,” and to “have it out” with the delinquent himself. “Ah’ll oppen t’ yat fo’ yo’ if y’ll wayte a minnit;” and, dismounting, he fulfilled his promise, and stood with his limp and battered “Jim Crow” hat in his hand, before the young gentleman had an opportunity to reply. “Thank you,” said Philip, with a bright, open smile, and, putting his hand in his pocket, he pulled out a coin with the view of paying for the favour he had received. “Nay,” said Adam, “Ah deean’t want payin’ for it. Ah sud hae ’ad te oppen it for mysen; an’ if ah hedn’t it wad hae been varry meean te see yo’ bother’d, an’ gan on indifferent. Bud if yo’ll excuse ma’, sor, ah sud like te say a wod or two te yo’, an’ ah wop yo’ weean’t be offended. Mah neeam’s Adam Olliver, an’ ah lives next deear te Nathan Blyth, an’ ah thinks as mitch aboot his lahtle Lucy as ah deea aboot me’ aun bairns. Oh, sor!” and Adam lifted his honest sun-brown face in strong appeal, “deean’t draw Natty’s yow’ lam’ away frev ’im, poor fellow! He hez bud’ hor, an’ if onny ’arm sud ’appen tiv her, it’ll breck his ’art an’ hor’s an’ all. She’s as good as she’s pratty, bless ’er! an’ it wad be twenty thoosand pities, as weel as an awful sin, te bring disgrace on ’er heead, an’ sorrow tiv’ ’er ’art. Deean’t, ah pre’ you, rob Natty of his darlin’. Yisterday, ah was clippin’ a hedge yonder by Marlpit Wood, an’ ah saw a muther-bod teeachin’ ’er yung ’un te flee. T’ aud bod flutter’d and chirrup’t up an’ doon, an’ roond aboot, the varry picther o’ happiness, an’ t’ poor lahtle gollin’ cheep’d an’ hopp’d, an’ flew as happy as it’s mother. A sparro’-hawk com’ doon, like a flash o’ leetnin’, an’ teeak’d lahtle thing away iv his claws. Ah tell you, Maister Philip, t’ way that poor muther-bod pleean’d an’ twitter’d, an’ hopp’d, frae bush te tree, an’ frae tree te bush, wild wi’ grief, was aneeaf te melt a flint. Maister Philip! deean’t be a hawk; bud let Natty’s pratty lahtle singin’-bod be, an’ God’ll bless yo’.”