Tim eyed him narrowly, and then, rolling over, gripped Dan's hand in his own huge paw. It was his way of apologizing for his unjust suspicions. "I trust ye! I trust ye! A man who can use his mauleys like you ain't a cur to play tricks on women. If I've offended you----" "You haven't offended me, friend. Say no more about it." So speaking, he rose abruptly and walked to the other side of the dell. Though he denied being angry, he was in reality rather indignant at Tim's imputation of libertinism. No man likes to be thought a scoundrel, and Dan did not like it. Yet he saw that the warning was dictated in a friendly spirit, so his wrath evaporated by the time he returned to the fire. At once he began to speak on a different subject, and Tim, seeing he was annoyed, gladly fell in with his humour. "I must come over to your camp, Tim. Where is it?" "Down yonder on the edge of the moor. We'll make ye as welcome as the dawn." "I'll come over, if only to find out why Mother Jericho coupled my name with that of this girl." "It wasn't Mother Jericho, but Fate," said Tim, with great simplicity. "If it be as she's to be your wife, there's no way out of it." "Pish! I'll never set eyes on her again, Tim. I leave this place to-morrow." "Not if Mother Jericho read your hand truly." There was no combating this obstinacy, as Tim was evidently a firm believer in palmistry. As a gipsy, he could not in reason be otherwise. Dan did not attempt to argue the matter, and after a few more words they parted, as Tim had business on hand. "I'm off tinkering to a village ten miles from here, rye," said he; "but don't 'ee forget to come to our camp when it suits you. I'll be proud to put on the gloves with you again." And with this pugilistic invitation he parted from his late antagonist. Dan remained lying where he was, and bearing in mind Tim's warning, made up his mind to baffle Mother Jericho's forecast if possible. But Fate proved too strong for him. Before the week was out, he met again with her whom he ironically christened the "Diana of Farbis." CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST LETTER TO A LONDON FRIEND. My Dear Jack, Not wishing to cut myself off entirely from civilization, I write to apprise you of my adventures while exploring England. I am in the wilds--that is, in a lonely village surrounded by moors, and twenty miles from the nearest town. A ragged boy on a ragged pony carries letters to and fro from this place--Farbis it is called--twice a week. Other communication with the world there is none, so you see I am sufficiently isolated from the influences of the nineteenth century.