"That’s a great idea, now!" declared Shillabeer. "Then everybody passing by could catch the Word. In fact, none could miss it if the letters was big enough." "For that matter, if I may say so," argued Mr. Moses, "the tors be the word of God a’ready, and nought out of the Bible could make ’em grander than they be. Not that this curious man thinks so. Without a doubt he’d write great Bible news across the moon’s self, if he could only find a ladder long enough to reach her; and a brush big enough for the work." *CHAPTER II* *A PESSIMIST* Three days before Christmas and an hour before dusk, Mr. Shillabeer, gun in hand, called at Coombeshead Farm, and Constance Stanbury opened the door for him. "I’m that finger-cold," he said, "that I thought as I might make so free as to drop in and warm myself a bit afore going back." "And welcome. Come in; come in. My husband will be home in a few minutes, so you’ll have a bit of male company. We women be that chuckle-headed." "No, no! Won’t hear you run yourself down," said the ’Dumpling,’ gallantly. "There’s no better company in these parts than your company, and very few women be in it for sense alongside of you." "Tea or cider?" she asked. "A drop of tea, if ’tis making. And I’ll leave a bird, if you’ll please to accept it. The plovers are on the Moor very plenty. A hard winter’s in store." "Each be harder than the last nowadays," she answered. "And thank you, I’m sure. A plover’s pretty eating, but too good for the likes of us." "Don’t you say that. You’m like me--take yourself too humble; but ’tis a mistake. People in the world always pull us a peg lower than our own conceit of ourselves. So we should screw up a peg higher--to be ready for ’em. How’s Margaret? You’ll never hear no two opinions about her--such an angel as she be." "Yes," admitted Constance; "and I’m much feared that she’s got more in common with the angels than us could wish. ’Tis coming over me worse and worse; and over her, too, poor lamb." "What ever do you mean?" he asked. Then he walked to the fire, removed his right gaiter and rubbed his huge leg where the strap had pressed too hardly upon it. "My Madge is not like every girl you meet," said Mrs. Stanbury. "Wish there was more of the same pattern." "And I’m terrible jealous for her--I’ll fight the world for her, like a hen with one chick; because her vartues are her own, and her faults she got from me." "Faults!--who ever heard tell of her faults?" "I take no credit in her beautiful goodness," continued the mother. "But I take shame in her softness. Too soft and gentle and yielding she is for this world, and the people in it. And, as her parent, I’m savage--savage as a wild cat, down in my secret heart--when I see people don’t understand. ’Tis me they ought to blame, not she." Mr. Shillabeer stared. His fingers were spread and a saucer of tea smoked upon them.