"You'm no hand at argument, Mr. Kekewich," continued Cockey; "for half the beauty of argufying is to hold close to the matter. You was saying as you didn't believe in souls; an' I was saying as I did. Well, take an instance. There's Miss Grace Malherb for who I be making this here lovely vest. Be that bowerly maiden no more than the pink-an'-white china dust she goes in? If so, she's no better'n this bit of flowered silk." "People can be good or evil, an' yet have no more souls than dogs," began the head man; but at that moment Miss Malherb herself entered as a bell rang to tell that the dinner hour was done. The labourers departed to their work, and Grace was left with Mr. Cockey. She came to beg a secret favour and now whispered it into the tailor's ear, though there was none but himself to hear it. "If you command, it must be done," he said. "I know a mariner to the harbour at Totnes, where the Holne timber goes down Dart to build His Majesty's great warships. The man has goodly stores, an' will sell me so much bunting as I want--red, white and blue. I'm going down to-morrow for the day to get more cloth." "And, before all things, keep it secret. Not a whisper!" "It shall be as you please, Miss. An' I'll ax you to take this here vest along, an' put it on, an' let me see if 'tis all right." "You work so dreadfully quick! You're sewing a shroud,--d'you know that, Mordecai?" "What a word! How comes it you want stuff for flags then?" "Ah! 'tis not for my wedding day. Now, if you could fashion me a pair of wings to fly with----" Mr. Cockey drew a thread through his needle. "Fine clothes don't make a happy marriage, I know," he said; "but they do put heart into a wedding party, an' speaking generally, they'm a great softener of life to females. A parcel from me has dried many tears--poor fools." "I'm not married yet, however." "No, but--Lord! what's that?" The tailor sat with his back to the window, and, unseen by him, a horseman had ridden up to it. Now he stopped, rapped upon the casement with his whip, doffed his hat and grinned at Grace. The glass was not good, and it distorted a countenance generally esteemed amiable and handsome. "Mercy on us, what a chap! 'Tis a face like to Satan!" cried Cockey. "That's the gentleman my father wishes me to marry," answered Grace quietly. "Then I'm sure I beg pardon, Miss. 'Twas a twist in the glass." "You caught sight of his soul--not his face," she said. The girl had turned pale, and now she hastily left the room.