The conversation shifted to their house presently and Madge declared her longing to see it grow. "And what be us to call the place?" she asked. "I thought of ’Black Tor Cottage,’" he said, "since Black Tor’s just above us." But Madge little liked the name. "’Black’ ban’t a comely word for a home," she said. "Think again, David." He shrugged his shoulders. "’Tis only the name of the tor," he answered; "black or white be no more than words." "Call it ’Meavy Cot,’" she said. "’Tis an easy name for folks to bring to mind, and I’d sooner my home was called after the river than they great stones up over, though I daresay I’ll get very fond of them too." "So be it," he answered. "’Meavy Cot’ is the name! and I hope that a good few prosperous years be waiting for us in it. But if ever I come to be Moorman of this quarter, I might have to leave it." "You’ll do greater things than that some day, David." "I hope I shall," he answered; "but to be Moorman is a very good stepping-stone, mark you." *CHAPTER II* *BARTLEY DOUBTFUL.* A great drake waddled out from the yard of Mrs. Crocker’s dwelling, and some white ducks followed him. The male bird was grey, but his head shone with the rich black-green of the fir trees behind him on the hill and the light of these metallic and glittering feathers made a fine setting for his brown eyes. He marched to the stream, put down his bill and tasted the water; he then threw up his bill again, quacked an order to set forth, and so floated away with the current, while his household followed after. Under the little bridge they went, and the drake, screwing round his head, cast an upward glance at the parapet as he passed by. There he might have marked a familiar figure, for Bartley Crocker, with his hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth, sat and talked to a woman who stood beside him. Their position was public, but the subject of their discourse might have been considered confidential. For the woman the revelation he now made opened a desirable possibility. The man spoke half in jest, yet it seemed clear that he found himself perfectly serious and meant all that he said on the main question. "Set down your basket, Madge, and listen. I’ll carry it along for you presently; but I can’t talk and walk together--not when the subject is so large. Where are you going?" "Over to they old Elfords down at Good-a-Meavy. They be terrible poor, you know, and he’s fallen ill and the pair of ’em was pretty near starving last week. One of the Bowden boys--Wellington, I think it was--called there, and he told his father; and of course the matter was looked to. I’m just taking them a thing or two, till the old man can get out again." "’Tis only putting off the workhouse." "Maybe--yet a good thing to put it off. They’ll be too old to smart soon; and then it won’t matter." "How’s Rhoda Bowden?" he asked suddenly. "Very well, so far as I know."