"When will the _Golden Fleece_ be fit for sea again?" "It'll be a month before they've got in the new keel, captain, and then she's got to be well overhauled." "It will be two months, then, before we can load up?" "Ay, all that," was the reply. "Go on getting in the meal and bacon. Have it ready for placing in store. We must have everything ready there for putting on board." "Ay, ay, skipper." "Keep the men from going near. Let there be no hanging about the valley on any pretence. See to that with those two last lads." "Ay," growled Wat. "The others can be trusted, of course." Gil nodded, and walked away, while Wat went on striking a light. "He's half afraid I should get in his way," growled the old fellow, "but he needn't be. Much better be afraid of some one finding out the store. There's a new man come to live here, and a new cottage built. The place is getting too thick with people, and if we don't mind we shall be found out. Who's yonder?" he continued, shading his eyes, and gazing through the wood. "Churr and Mother Goodhugh. An' if we're ever found out, that Churr's the man who will do it. And if--if--if--he--does--the captain--will--hang--him--at--th' yard-arm--sure--as--he's--a--sinful-- soul--hah!" There was a puff in lighting the pipe between each of these last words, ending with an expiration, after which Wat Kilby leaned back on the moss, half-closed his eyes, and lay watching the couple he had named as they stood talking in the wood. Volume 1, Chapter VII. HOW MISTRESS ANNE SOUGHT A SPELL. The days passed swiftly on in the lonely little valley where Jeremiah Cobbe had cast his lot. The trees flourished, and the wondrous variety of wild-flowers, for which that part of the Sussex weald has always been famed, succeeded each other, and made gay the banks and shaughs, while beneath the spreading oaks and beeches in the great forest the verdant carpet was always bright. The many streamlets went on carving their way through the yellow sandrock, and fell in a thousand tiny cascades, whose soft spray moistened the fronds of the luxuriant ferns. All was beautiful, for nature seemed there never to resent the fact that the ironmaster's workers delved ore from the hill-side, cut down the woods and burned them to charcoal, and then melted the iron to run in orange streams in the deftly-formed moulds for howitzer, culverin, or simple gun. There had been accidents, when, with a sudden roar, some powder-shed had blown up, blasting the herbage and leaves around; but a few showers and the bright hot sun soon restored all to its pristine state, and, embowered in trees, the works sent up their charcoal fumes without poisoning the air, or doing more harm than the saline breezes that swept over the hills from off the sea.