"They’m saying to Sheepstor that Bartley Crocker’s off," he announced with his mouth full. "Off where?" asked Mr. Stanbury. "To foreign parts. ’Twas always thought he might go when his mother died. They do say he’s cruel sweet on Rhoda Bowden, but I don’t think she’s of the same mind." "I’ve heard Madge say that she would much like it to fall out," declared Mrs. Stanbury; "but, for my part, Rhoda don’t look to be seeking a husband. She’s different to her kind, and I don’t see her either wife or mother." Bart was reminded of another maiden and he sighed, put his hand to his chin, and looked into vacancy with a very lack-lustre expression. "Shillabeer was here afore you comed home," said his father; "and he says you’m too young to stand up to Mattacott. You’d kill the man." "I may yet," declared Bart gloomily. "Anyway I can’t wait like this much longer. No more can he. She won’t say which ’tis to be, and the strain of mind is getting a bit too sharp. Something’s got to go scat afore long--either him or me--or her." "She ought to decide, no doubt," admitted his mother. "But I hope you ban’t hopeful, Bart, for I’m not. T’other’s better off than you and wiser; and Jane West has found it out, of course." "He may be wiser, or he may not be," answered Bart. "Anyway I’m too wise to wait till Doomsday; and so I’ve told her; and she’s going to decide afore the New Year." "She’ll take Timothy Mattacott," repeated his mother. "Stanburys ban’t no good at competing with other people. No more was my family--they always went under; and now they’ve gone under altogether, for I’m the last of ’em." *CHAPTER III* *THE VOICE FROM THE POOL*