“Chill-fashion weddin’,” said Will, as he walked homewards, “but it ’pears to me all Blanchards be fated to wed coorious.  Well, ’t is a gude matter out o’ hand.  I knaw I raged somethin’ terrible come I fust heard it, but I think differ’nt now, specially when I mind what Chris must have felt those times she seed me welting her child an’ heard un yell, yet set her teeth an’ never shawed a sign.”

“Did ’e note Jan Grimbal theer?”

“I seed un, an’ I catched un wi’ his eye on you more ’n wance.  He ’s grawed to look nowadays as if his mouth allus had a sour plum in it.”

“His brain’s got sour stuff hid in it if his mouth haven’t.  Be you ever feared of un?”

“Not me.  Why for should I be?  He’ll be wan of the fam’ly like, now.  He caan’t keep his passion alive for ever.  We ’m likely to meet when Martin do come home again from honeymooning.”

“Will, I must tell you something—­something gert an’ terrible.  I should have told ’e ’fore now but I was frightened.”

“Not feared to speak to me?”

“Ess, seeing the thing I had to say.  I’ve waited weeks in fear an’ tremblin’, expecting something to happen, an’ all weighed down with fright an’ dread.  Now, what wi’ the cheel that’s comin’, I caan’t carry this any more.”

Being already lachrymose, after the manner of women at a wedding, Phoebe now shed a tear or two.  Will thereupon spoke words of comfort, and blamed her for hiding any matter from him.

“More trouble?” he said.  “Yet I doan’t think it,—­not now,—­just as I be right every way.  I guess ‘t is your state makes you queer an’ glumpy.”

“I hope ‘t was vain talk an’ not true anyway.”

“More talk ‘bout me?  You’d think Chagford was most tired o’ my name, wouldn’t ’e?  Who was it now?”

“Him—­Jan Grimbal.  I met him ‘mong the mushrooms.  He burst out an’ said wicked, awful things, but his talk touched the li’l bwoy.  He thought Tim was yourn an’ he was gwaine to do mischief against you.”

“Damn his black mind!  I wonder he haven’t rotted away wi’ his awn bile ’fore now.”

“But that weern’t all.  He talked an’ talked, an’ threatened if you didn’t go an’ see him, as he’d tell ’bout you in the past, when you was away that autumn-time ’fore us was married.”

“Did he, by God!  Doan’t he wish he knawed!”

“He does knaw, Will—­least he said he did.”

“Never dream it, Phoebe.  ’T is a lie.  For why?  ’Cause if he did knaw I shouldn’t—­but theer, I’ve never tawld ‘e, an’ I ban’t gwaine to now.  Awnly I’ll say this,—­if Grimbal really knawed he’d have—­but he can’t knaw, and theer ’s an end of it.”

“To think I should have been frighted by such a story all these weeks!  An’ not true.  Oh!  I wish I’d told ’e when he sent the message.  ’T would have saved me so much.”

“Ess, never keep nothin’ from me, Phoebe.  Theer ’s troubles that might crush wan heart as comes a light load divided between two.  What message?”