There came a misty autumn sunrise beside the river and Grimbal, hastening through the valley of Teign, suddenly found himself face to face with Phoebe.  She had been upon the meadows since grey dawn, where many mushrooms set in silvery dew glimmered like pearls through the mist; and now, with a full basket, she was returning to Monks Barton for breakfast.  As she rested for a moment at a stile between two fields, Grimbal loomed large from the foggy atmosphere and stood beside her.  She moved her basket for him to pass and her pulses quickened but slightly, for she had met him on numerous occasions during past years and they were now as strangers.  To Phoebe he had long been nothing, and any slight emotion he might awaken was in the nature of resentment that the man could still harden his heart against her husband and remain thus stubborn and obdurate after such lapse of time.  When, therefore, John Grimbal, moved thereto by some sudden prompting, addressed Will’s wife, she started in astonishment and a blush of warm blood leapt to her face.  He himself was surprised at his own voice; for it sounded unfamiliar, as though some intelligent thing had suddenly possessed him and was using his vocal organs for its own ends.

“Don’t move.  Why, ’t is a year since we met alone, I think.  So you are back at Monks Barton.  Does it bring thoughts?  Is it all sweet?  By your face I should judge not.”

She stared and her mouth trembled, but she did not answer.

“You needn’t tell me you’re happy,” he continued, with hurried words.  “Nobody is, for that matter.  But you might have been.  Looking at your ruined life and my own, I can find it in my heart to be sorry for us both.”

“Who dares to say my life is ruined?” she flashed out.  “D’ you think I would change Will for the noblest in the land?  He is the noblest.  I want no pity—­least of all yourn.  I’ve been a very lucky woman—­and—­everybody knaws it whatever they may say here an’ theer.”

She was strong before him now; her temper appeared in her voice and she took her basket and rose to leave him.

“Wait one moment.  Chance threw us here, and I’ll never speak to you again if you resent it.  But, meeting you like this, something seemed to tell me to say a word and let you know.  I’m sorry you are so wretched—­honestly.”

“I ban’t wretched!  Never was a happier wife.”

“Never was a better one, I know; but happy?  Think.  I was fond of you once and I can read between the lines—­the little thin lines on your forehead.  They are newcomers.  I’m not deceived.  Nor is it hidden.  That the man has proved faithless is common knowledge now.  Facts are hard things and you’ve got the fact under your eyes.  The child’s his living image.”

“Who told you, and how dare you foul my ears and thoughts with such lies?” she asked, her bosom heaving.  “You’m a coward, as you always was, but never more a coward than this minute.”