The work that Sarah Jane wanted was found for her, and during the
next three months she disappeared from Amicombe Hill. Sometimes on
Sundays, however, she visited her father. She worked as hard as she
possibly could, proved an apt pupil, made new friends at her
temporary home in Lew Trenchard, and saw Daniel Brendon now and then.
She also wrote to him and her father.
Meantime her betrothed planned his future, calculated the cost of new
furniture for Mr. Prout's cottage, and made himself very useful to
that large-hearted man.
John Prout was quite content to return to the farm and live under the
same roof as his master. For some reasons he relished the change,
since it would now be easier to devote a little more personal
attention to Hilary. He could see no faults in him; he pandered to
Woodrow's lethargic nature as far as he was able; he stuck stoutly to
it that the farmer was not a robust man and must be considered in
every way possible.
The time sped and Winter returned. Then Sarah Jane, her education
with regard to milk and butter complete, came home, and Daniel began
to clamour for marriage. Mr. Friend finally decided that the season
of Spring should be chosen. For himself he had planned to live
henceforth in a little building at the peat-works. He held that a
few slates and stones, some mortar and a pail of whitewash, would
render it habitable. An engineer had paid one of his rare, periodic
visits to the works, made some suggestions and departed again.
Therefore Gregory was full of new hopes. There had also come
increasing demands for Amicombe peat from various sources, and he was
very busy with a trolly on the old tram-line. He loaded it from his
stores, then steered it down the winding ways of the Moor, discharged
his fuel near the railway station, and, with one strong horse to drag
the trolly, climbed back again to his boggy fastness behind Great
Links.
The banns were called at Lydford, and Sarah Jane and Daniel listened
to them. He burnt under his brown skin; she betrayed interest, but
no visible embarrassment.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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