"Not dying, is he?" Roger asked the messenger in Cornish. Half his customers spoke the old language, and it came readier to his tongue. The messenger chuckled. "Dying? He'll live to be a hundred! Eh, it's not dying he's after," and the man winked. He was near upon bursting with news--or gossip--of his own. "That's enough," said Roger. "Go back and tell him that if he's well and wants to talk, he knows where to find me." And he turned back to his work. Next day old Humphrey Stephen rode down into Helleston in a towering rage, reined up before his son's shop, and dismounted. "You're a pretty dutiful kind of son," he snarled. "But I've a word that concerns you belike. I'm going to marry again." "Ah?" said Roger, drawing in his breath and eyeing the old man up and down in a way that disconcerted him. "Who's the poor soul?" "She lives over to Porthleven," answered his father, "and her name is Mary Nankivell. She's--well, in fact she's a fisherman's daughter; but I've lived long enough to despise differences of that kind." "I wasn't asking _your_ age," said Roger meditatively. "What's the woman's?" "She'll be twenty next birthday." The old man was sixty-five. "Well, what's your opinion?" he asked testily, for he knew he was doing a wrong thing, and craved an excuse to work himself into a rage. "On which?" asked Roger, "--you, or the woman?" "On the marriage." Old Humphrey stood glowering under his eyebrows, and tapped his boot impatiently with the butt of his riding-whip. "I reckoned it might concern you, that's all." "I can't see that it does." There was that in Roger's slow look which his father found maddening. "Oh, can't you?" he sneered. "No, for the life of me," answered Roger. "'Tis wickedness of course, but I've no call to interfere. Take and marry the miserable fool, if you're so minded." Humphrey Stephen had more to say, but gulped it down and mounted his horse with a devilish grin. Roger Stephen went back to his work-bench. III. "Pack of fools!" growled old Malachi as the thump-thump of the drum drew nearer. He rose and shifted his stool to a corner, for the way to the back premises lay through the shop. Roger looked forth into the sunny street, blinked, and, picking up a pair of pincers, returned to his watch. The band came slowly down the street and halted outside--still in full blast; for between the Market House and the Bowling Green there must be no pause in the Flora-dance or its music. And presently the Mayor himself thrust his red face in at the shop-door. "Good-mornin'!" he nodded, jigging away with his feet. "You'll lev' us come through, I suppose?" "Welcome," grunted Roger. "And, darn'ee, take care o' my cabbages!" added Malachi. "You ruined half a score of 'em last year with your May-games."