“Colonel Clifford,” said Mrs. Dawson, “hates Bartley like poison, and Bartley him.  The Colonel vows he will have him off the land and out of the bowels of the earth, and he have sent him a lawyer’s letter; for everything leaks out in this village, along of the servants’ chattering.  Bartley he don’t value a lawyer’s letter no more than that.  He defies the Colonel, and they’ll go at it hammer and tongs at the ’Sizes, and spend a mint of money in law.  That’s one side of the question.  But there’s another.  Master Walter is deep in love with Miss Mary.”

“Who is she?”

“Who is she?  Why, Bartley’s daughter, to be sure; not as I’d believe it if I hadn’t known her mother, for she is no more like him in her looks or her ways than a tulip is to a dandelion.  She is the loveliest girl in the county, and better than she’s bonny.  You don’t catch her drawing bridle at her papa’s beer-house, and she never passes my picture.  It’s ’Oh, Mrs. Dawson, I am so thirsty, a glass of your good cider, please, and a little hay and water for Deersfoot.’  That’s her way, bless your silly heart! She ain’t dry; and Deersfoot, he’s full of beans, and his coat’s like satin; but that’s Miss Mary’s way of letting me know that she’s my customer, and nobody else’s in the town.  God bless her, and send her many happy days with the man of her heart, and that is Walter Clifford, for she is just as fond of him as he is of her.  I seen it all from the first day.  ’Twas love at first sight, and still a-growing to this day.  Them old fogies may tear each other to pieces, but they won’t part such lovers as those.  There’s not a girl in the village that doesn’t run to look at them, and admire them, and wish them joy.  Ay, and you mark my words, they are young, but they have got a spirit, both of them.  Miss Mary, she looks you in the face like a lion and a dove all in one.  They may lead her, but they won’t drive her.  And Walter, he’s a Clifford from top to toe.  Nothing but death will part them two.  Them’s the facts, sir, without a lie, which now I’m a-waiting for judgment.”

“Mrs. Dawson,” said Monckton, solemnly, “since you do me the honor to ask my opinion, I say that out of these facts a row will certainly arise, and a deadly one.”

“It must, sir; and Will Hope will have to take a side.  ’Tis no use his trying to be everybody’s friend this time, though that’s his natural character, poor chap.”

Monckton’s eyes flashed fire, but he suppressed all appearance of excitement, and asked who Mr. Hope was.

Mrs. Dawson brightened at the very name of her favorite, and said, “Who is Will Hope?  Why, the cleverest man in Derbyshire, for one thing; but he is that Bartley’s right-hand man, worse luck.  He is inspector of the mine and factotum.  He is the handiest man in England.  He invents machines, and makes fiddles and plays ’em, and mends all their clocks and watches and wheel-barrows, and charges ’em naught.