“Who’s prying?” asked Philander. “I merely say, from my knowledge of human beings in general, that if a pretty young woman’s not happy and her husband hasn’t got the trick to make her so, ’tis almost any odds some other chap will come along and have a try. That’s what would happen in most Christian countries anyway—whether Devonshire’s different I don’t know, being a stranger to these parts.” “We men mind our own business in Devonshire,” said Kellock, and Knox answered promptly. “Then I’m right,” he said, “because a pretty girl down on her luck is every man’s business.” “She’ll get a fright I dare say,” prophesied Robert Life. “I’ve known more than one young married woman, restless like, who ran a bit of risk; but as a rule their eyes are opened in time and the husband makes good.” Kellock, heartily loathing this conversation, left the others, and when he was gone, Life explained to Mr. Knox the situation. “Another man might be dangerous,” said Henry Barefoot, “for by all accounts Medora liked him very well and was in two minds to the last which she’d take. But Kellock’s a good and sober creature and a great respecter of law and order. You can trust him not to break out.” “You speak as a bachelor and your sister’s brother, Henry,” answered Philander. “Where there’s a woman and a man that once loved her, you can no more trust either of ’em not to break out than you can trust a spring in autumn. Kellock’s clearly a virtuous soul, and he certainly won’t break out if he can help it. You can see by his eyes he’s not a lady’s man, and never will be in any large and generous sense. But so much the more danger, for where that sort dines they sleeps when love’s the trouble. Let them love once and they’ll love for ever, no matter what happens; and if she was fool enough to go playing about with him, she might overthrow him to his own loss in the long run.” These forebodings were cut short by the work bell and Mr. Knox, expressing a hope that he might be mistaken, shook out his pipe and followed Robert back into the vat room. CHAPTER VI THE MARTYR On a Saturday afternoon full of sunshine was presented the rich but simple picture of Ashprington village under conditions of autumn. The hamlet lay on a slope under a hillcrest and through it fell steep paths by meadow and orchard past the cottages to Bow Bridge far distant in the vale. Crowning Ashprington rose the church-tower of uniform grey, battlemented, with a great poplar standing on its right, and a yew tree throwing shadow upon the western porch. Then fell the land abruptly, and the whole foreground was filled with an apple orchard, that rippled to the churchyard walls and spread a rich cloth of scarlet and gold around them.