"How did you guess that? But 'tis perfectly true. She is; and she said a very kind thing that was very hopeful to me to hear. She said that the bell always put her in mind of me, and I always put her in mind of the bell." "I wonder! And did you tell her what was writ on the bell?" "Yes, I did, father." "And d'you know what she thought?" Mark shook his head. "She thought that the sooner it called you and her to church together, and the sooner it called me to my grave, the pleasanter life would look for her hard eyes." "Father! 'Tis cruel and unjust to say such things." "Haven't I seen her there o' Sundays ever since she growed up? There's nought tells you more about people than their ways in church. As bright as a bee and smart and shining; but hard--hard as the nether millstone, that woman's heart. Have a care of her; that's all I'll say to you." "I hope to God you'll know her better some day, father." "And I hope you will, my lad; and I'll use your strong words too, and hope to God you'll know her better afore 'tis too late." "This is cruel, and I'm bitter sorry to hear you say it," answered the young man, rising. Then he went out and left his father alone. Elsewhere Phyllis Lintern had eagerly inquired of Cora as to the interview with the bellringer. The girls shared many secrets and were close friends. They knew unconsciously that their brother was more to the mother than were they. Heathman adored Mrs. Lintern and never wearied of showing it; but for his sisters he cared little, and they felt no interest in him. Now Phyllis sympathised with Cora's ambitions and romances. "How was it?" she asked. "I warrant you brought him to the scratch!" "'Tis all right," declared her sister. "'Tis so good as done. The word was on his tongue coming up-along in the dimpsy; but it stuck in his throat. I know the signs well enough. However, 'twill slip out pretty soon, I reckon. He's a good sort, though fidgety, but he's gotten lovely eyes. I'll wake him up and smarten him up, too--presently." CHAPTER VII When man builds a house on Dartmoor, he plants trees to protect it. Sometimes they perish; sometimes they endure to shield his dwelling from the riotous and seldom-sleeping winds. Round the abode of Humphrey Baskerville stood beech and pine. A solid old house lurked beneath, like a bear in its grove. People likened its face to the master's--the grey, worn, tar-pitched roof to his hair, and the small windows on either side of the door to his eyes. A few apple trees were in the garden, and currant and gooseberry bushes prospered indifferent well beneath them. Rhubarb and a row of elders also flourished here. The latter were permitted to exist for their fruit, and of the berries Mrs. Susan Hacker, Humphrey's widowed housekeeper, made medicinal preparations supposed to possess value.