“Do please come and have a glass of cider. Tom thinks the world of you, Philander.” “That’s better. If you say ‘come,’ then of course I’ll come. But don’t let there be any false pretences about it. We’ve all got to pretend a lot in this world; but I ain’t going to pretend nothing about Tom Dolbear. I don’t visit at Priory Farm for his company, but for yours; and, if God wills, I’ll get you out of it sooner or later, Lydia.” “He don’t suspect nothing like that,” she said. “He does not—that’s certain, else he wouldn’t offer me his cider or anything else. But a time is at hand when he’ll have to face it—and his wife also. Most women would have seen through it by now; but she’s always asleep, or half asleep, while you do her work.” “Poor Mary,” said Mrs. Trivett. “Her doom is coming near I hope and trust,” he answered. “You’re not doing right at all in standing between that woman and her duty. You come to me, and then she’ll find that she’s only got time to sleep eight hours in the twenty-four; and she’ll also find the meaning of a family.” They proceeded together and Knox presently smoked a pipe with Tom; but he seemed not as amiable as usual and contradicted the farmer’s opinion flatly on more than one occasion. Mr. Dolbear, however, thought very highly of the vatman and doubted not that Mr. Knox was right. “I learn from you,” he said. CHAPTER XVI AT “THE WATERMAN’S ARMS” A measure of argument arose between Abel Hayman and his wife, master and mistress of “The Waterman’s Arms.” He had held that to receive Medora and Kellock was quite impossible, while she took a contrary opinion, and her word was law. “Morals is morals, and business is business,” said Mrs. Hayman, “and I know Jordan Kellock by reputation, and his reputation is all it should be. Dingle will get a bill of divorcement and they’ll be married according to law; and if they don’t come to us, they’ll go to the ‘Ring of Bells,’ so enough said.” Mr. Hayman relented at sound of “The Ring of Bells,” and was ready to welcome the guests when they arrived. It seemed strange to Medora, who had passed the little inn by the bridge so many times, to enter the door and find it her home for a season. It was a cool and restful spot, and the private rooms, facing the stream, were removed some way from the bar. A yellow rose straggled over the face of the building and in the garden were old world flowers, now pushing up to renewed life—columbines and bleeding hearts, orange lilies and larkspurs.