The mistal at the rear of Gabriel Hirst's house was noisy, this May evening, with the clatter of milking-pails, the mooing of cattle in their stalls, and the semi-audible running comments of Jose Binns. Jose, it will be remembered, in addition to looking after the chapel and giving sound advice to the preacher, was Gabriel's right hand in the management of the farm.

Now the Ling Crag folk were keen as nails in their bargainings with the Almighty, and they were just as keen in their conduct of more carnal transactions. Jose Binns, indeed, had a really remarkable aptitude for trafficking of both sorts; it was his favourite occupation, while milking or engaged in any other work that left his thoughts free, to drive imaginary bargains with non-existent purchasers touching property which was not his to sell. This was his substitute for the reading of fiction, and it certainly betokened a higher order of intelligence than that of the merely practical man who chaffers with realities.

The mistal door stood open to-night. Jose and the roan cow he was milking showed vague at the far end of the byre; the honey-rich flavour of kine mingled with the summer dusk within. The roan cow was more patient than usual, and Jose, feeling himself in consequence at liberty to take a little imaginative run, dropped his mumbled adjurations. His voice grew distinct and earnest as he commenced a spirited duologue, with one William Feather as second party, Jose acting as sponsor for William in that individual's absence.

"Now, William, I've getten a grand beÄst for sale. What mud tha be after gieing?"

"Nay, I see nowt so mich i' her. Nay, I'm noan so set on naming a price."

"Lad, tha'rt daft, letting sich a chance go by. She gi'es sixteen quart a day, that she does—eight i' th' morn, an' eight at neet. She hesn't a bad trick wi' her, an' milks quiet as a lamb. Now, come, William; she's dirt cheap at twelve pun ten."

"Twelve pun ten, say'st 'a? What! for a ill-fettled beÄst like yon? Fiddle o' that tale! I'll gie thee nine pun, an' mak thee shut on a bad bargain for old sake's sake."

"Nay, nay, I willun't tak a ha'penny less nor twelve pun. There's not another like her i' Ling Crag—nay, nor for twenty mile round, nawther. She's muck cheÄp, I tell thee, at twelve pun. Only yestermorn Dick o' Rag war here, an' he tried to beat me down to eleven pun; but I warn't sich a softy, I warn't, an' I telled Dick he could tak her at twelve pun ten or lump it, just as it suited him. I'll mak it twelve, though, as it's thee, lad, an' that's more nor I'd do for Dick. He'll be back to-morn, likely, wi' th' brass i' his pocket; an' a sorry chap tha'll be, William, when tha sees thy bargain goan."

The argument went on briskly till Jose was nearly through with his last pair of udders; William had certainly the lesser half of the talking to do, but this was a pardonable human trait in old Binns. Finally, a compromise was effected at ten pounds, and Jose Binns got up from his stool. He smacked the roan cow's flanks, uttering the while a quiet cackle of delight.

"Tha girt lanky bitch," cried he, "tha artn't worth seven pun, let alone ten. Tha knows tha kicks th' pail ower ivery time ony but me shapes to milk thee, an' oftens then; tha ho'ds thy milk; tha's as full o' jade's tricks as a egg is full o' meÄt. Eh, lass! but William mun ha' bin doiting when he gie ten pun for thee."

"Is that my cow you're selling, Jose?" asked the preacher, from the doorway.

"Ay, I war doing part bargaining. I selled th' owd roÄn cow for ten pun. Eh, it war grand—grand! He's noan what he war at a bargain, isn't William."

Gabriel laughed, as one accustomed to these visionary sales.

"I want the trap to-morrow. See that it's well cleaned—spick and span as you can make it."

"Isn't it allus well cleÄned?" grumbled Jose, settling himself to the last of the cows.

"Well, yes; but this is a special occasion. Mr. Lomax comes home with his wife in the afternoon, and I'm going to meet them at Heathley. It isn't every day, Jose, I have to meet a honeymoon couple."

"Not sich a couple," said Jose, slowly.

"What do you mean, man? You look as sour as a winter apple over it."

"I've heÄrd tales as are like to set a man's back up. Oh, ay, there's been queer goings on up to Teewit House."

Partly from habit, partly from the spirit of the country, Gabriel was wont to humour old Binns; but he frowned to-night as Jose touched on matters about which he himself had been sorely exercised.

"Nonsense! I wonder at you, Jose, listening to such old woman's talk."

"Wondering won't shape things different, an' that's Bible truth. What for doesn't th' Manor trap wend to th' station, i' place o' yourn?"

"Because," said the preacher, with an accent there was no mistaking—"because I asked Mrs. Lomax to let me go and meet them. There are too many idle tongues about; but I fancy folks know I shouldn't run after wastrels—and it may be as well to show what I think at once, and have done with it."

"I doan't hold wi' kissing," muttered Jose, doggedly—"leastways, while thy wife's another chap's. Afore marriage, I allus did say, fowks ought to think shame to kiss an' slaver ower one another; an' after ye're wed—well, ye're noan so set on it, an' there's no harm done. Them's my views—gie ower, lass! Dost 'a want to upset th' pail, tha silly wench?"

The set of Jose's shoulders indicated that the subject was closed, so far as he was concerned; so Gabriel, with another reminder about the conveyance, went back to the house, there to reckon up, for the hundredth time, the twisted ways of his friend's wooing.

But the May sun was shining bravely as he drove to Heathley at three of the following afternoon, and loyalty to Griff seemed just part and parcel of the quickening landscape. Step by step with the loyalty ran that unalterable egoism of the preacher's. If he could feel himself singled out, now for Divine wrath, now for commendation at the Deity's hands, how much easier was it for him to believe that Marshcotes and Ling Crag set great store by his example? They knew him, all these villagers who had been shaken by the scandal in their midst; they saw in him a resolute and a God-fearing man, one whose opinion on a point of morals was worth the having; how could it fail to make Griff's road the smoother for him if he, Gabriel Hirst, ostentatiously went forward to greet him on his arrival? Perhaps, then, it was almost a disappointment to Gabriel when he reached Heathley and discovered that certain daring minds had chosen to act on their own initiative. The good coach "Airedale" ran from Landford to Heathley in those days, and it had been noised abroad among those who knew Lomax that he and his wife would reach the Spotted Heifer at two of the afternoon. The preacher found the inn-yard black with chattering groups of Marshcotes folk, gathered from widely different sections of the community. Some had walked to Heathley, others had come by omnibus; all, by the look of their faces, were prepared to give young Lomax as hearty a greeting as he could wish for.

The same impulse which had moved the preacher to side with the weaker cause was not likely to leave unmoved others of these sturdy dwellers on the moors. The weak, the irresolute and the ultra-pious were dead against Griff and his wife; they forgot old likings, and remembered only what had been proved up to the hilt in a court of law. And this attitude had roused the more independent men and women; they brought to mind the fact that no one in Marshcotes had had a word to say against Griff until this trouble came; none could urge that the lad's treatment of Kate was simply a corollary of previous conduct of his; but plenty of people were mindful of the open-handed way in which Griff and his mother had gone in and out among their neighbours. Before the trouble with Strangeway's wife, indeed, there had been a remarkable unanimity in the mind of the countryside as to the Lomaxes. Some were wont to style Griff "a raffle-coppin," meaning thereby a kind of ne'er-do-weel whom everybody loved; but that was the worst name you were likely to hear attached to him through the length and breadth of Marshcotes parish. And though they had their faults—these upland folk—forgetfulness of old friendships was not among their vices.

So the preacher, as he jumped from the trap and threw the reins to a boy who chanced to be near, felt as though a little cold water had been sprinkled over the fine warmth of his enthusiasm. He recommenced the searchings of soul, the anxious appeals to Providence as to whether he were doing the right thing, now that he stood as one of a band of well-wishers, not as a solitary ally against a crowd of backbiters.

But the waiting groups were unmistakably glad to see Gabriel Hirst come into the inn-yard. If they had failed to look to him for inspiration to perform a kindly act, they were at least deeply sensible of the sanction given to that act by the presence of one who was pre-eminently a man of God. Even Jack o' Ling Crag, with his satellites, Will Reddiough and the rest, warmed to the conviction "that Gabriel Hirst war noan sich a bad sort of a chap, when he left his praching-tackle behind him."

The coach was late, according to a precedent not unknown at Heathley; but no diminution of good spirits was apparent in the jolly crowd that thronged the yard. The demonstration had none of the dreary formality peculiar to organized gatherings. Each little handful of men and women had come here on its own account, expecting to be the sole representative of the village, and casting uneasy glances at its neighbours as it set off down the village street, lest its destination should be guessed and commented on; each little knot, on arriving at the inn, looked at the next group, first with surprise, then with broadening grins. Every one—with the exception of the preacher—felt that it was pleasant to have company while arguing for the doubtful side of a moral question.

As for Jack o' Ling Crag, he was all a-bubble with suppressed glee. When Reddiough observed that there was a fine welcome in store for the travellers, Jack winked very knowingly, and, "Thee bide a bit," he answered darkly; "happen there's summat i' th' way on a extra surprise i' store."

At last the coach came in, with a mighty screech of the horn and a rattling of horses' hoofs on the cobbles. Gabriel Hirst sent his self-communing to the winds as he saw Griff—old Griff—standing on the top of the coach, his head somewhere up about the level of the Spotted Heifer's chimney-stacks, his face one comprehensive laugh of satisfaction. Three-times-three went up from the crowd, and old Jim, of cheery memory, gave a gallant blast from his horn, and a mixed collection of children, dogs, and loafers gathered round the outskirts of the throng, to see what all the fuss was about.

"I've brought the trap for you; we'll be at the Manor in no time, with the chestnut between the shafts," said the preacher, salutations over.

"Axing your pardon, sir," interrupted Jack o' Ling Crag, "th' chestnut isn't no longer atween th' shafts; there's shanks's mare i' place o' horseflesh, if so be as Mr. Lummax——"

"Here, I say!" broke in Griff, with a jolly laugh; "a joke's a joke, Jacky boy, but it's four good miles to Marshcotes Manor; you can't pull us all the way?"

"An' a home-coming's a home-coming, an' a welcome's a welcome," answered mine host of the Dog and Grouse; "an' what's four mile to Marshcotes lads? We'll tak turn an' turn about; there's plenty on us for that little journey."

"And there's a house-side called Marshcotes main street at the end of it. Have you thought of that, boys?" said Griff, still laughing.

"Tak what the Lord gi'es ye, sir, an' mak no bones about it. Up ye get, an' away we go; an' if we're as willing as your wife's bonny, ye won't be lang on th' roÄd."

Jack o' Ling Crag, having exhausted himself in this effort of gallantry, ran forward and took his place at the left shaft of the conveyance. Kate was a little bewildered, and vastly pleased, by the unexpected symptoms of good-will; but her confusion did not signify in the least, since she was only expected to blush rosy red and look her best. They had cheered for Griff, and they had cheered for Kate, this crowd of hard uplanders, who could let themselves out for a holiday on occasion. So up went another three-times-three for the "little pracher," and Gabriel found himself swung by mighty arms on to the back seat of the trap. Jack was joined by five other stalwart volunteers, and away they rattled through the market-place, along the rutty, narrow streets, and so into the smooth highway that led to Marshcotes. All who had come on foot kept pace beside the gig; a little behind followed the green omnibus from the Bull, and the red 'bus from the White Hart just across the way.

At the foot of Marshcotes main street was the surprise which old poacher Jack's innocent heart had devised, as likely to give his comrade about as much pleasure as a man could hold without unduly stretching his anatomy. The local band struck up its own private version of the wedding-march, and headed the triumphal procession with a vigour that was unimpeachable.

"Now, sir, hes Marshcotes gi'en ye a welcome, or hesn't it?" demanded Jack, relinquishing his post at the shaft and going to Griff's side.

"It has that! We'll not forget to-day, Kate, will we?"

"Durn it, it's nowt so mich to crack on—on'y we thowt as we'd just try our best, Mr. Lummax," muttered Jack, and dropped modestly to the rear of the procession.

Mrs. Lomax was at the Manor gate when they arrived. She had heard the shouting, and a tune that seemed vaguely connected with wedding festivals, and the clatter of clogs on the stones; but she could scarcely believe her eyes when she saw the fashion of Griff's home-coming, nor her ears when she heard the shouts of good fellowship. The old lady's eyes dimmed with tears; it was good to believe in such friendliness as had prompted these rackety demonstrations.

Much would have more, and up went three cheers for the mother. Griff helped Kate down, kissed his mother, and turned to the crowd.

"We can't entertain you all here," he laughed, "but come in, as many as can squeeze a way."

"An' them as can't, will find quarters at th' Dog an' Grouse!" cried Jack o' Ling Crag.

"An' th' Bull can mak room for a two or three," chimed in the rival landlord.

After the noisy crowd had been got rid of, they had supper, the three of them; and after that Griff lit his pipe, and stretched out his long legs to the blaze, and looked from the mother on one side of the hearth to the wife on the other—wondering the while that this vexed problem of marriage worked itself out so exceeding smoothly in practice.

It seemed odd to Kate to find herself once again in that firelit parlour, where she had waited till Griff might return to claim her, where she had sickened with dread lest an ever-watchful Providence should snatch the coming happiness from her grasp. She had forgotten, in the midst of her dread, that it is only the things we fear most abjectly which never happen; keen terror would seem to act as a buffer between its object and its fulfilment, but she had not stopped to think of that. And now she was here, with Griff beside her—with an earnest, too, from those she had known, her life through, that they were minded to esteem her a woman of honour. Impulsively she put her arms round Griff's neck and drew his face down.

"I had never dreamed such things could be," she whispered.

The honeymoon had left her with her illusions sweet and sound. She was no girl, to be outraged by necessities, to quiver under the little jars that make up the wear and tear of a privacy shared with another. Her idols were a woman's; her hopes of the new life were of tougher fabric than the girl's peach-bloom romanticism, to be rubbed bare by any passing sleeve; and those two months they had had together, she and Griff, had given her no cause to doubt the future. Whether the Providence she held in superstitious dread had chosen prose instead of poetry, had elected to rob her, hour by weary hour after she had once settled into her new life, of the happiness that now almost hurt her by its intensity—whether Providence thought surfeit a subtler cruelty than the mere dashing away of an untasted cup, remained to be seen—but Kate's dreads did not lie that way, and her home-coming had not a drop of bitter in among the sweets.

The mother's keen eyes took stock of them both, and the doubt in her face resolved itself slowly as she watched. Like all homely women, she had a quick scent for harmony or discord between married people, and she felt that Kate and Griff were "all right."

"Well, mother?" said Griff, when Kate had left them.

"That is a big question to ask, dear, is it not? But you will do, I fancy, the pair of you. I have been anxious, terribly anxious, about the effect these eight weeks would have on you. You went away gaily enough, boy, but I knew that it was kill or cure."

"What do you mean, quite?"

"You would not have asked me that if the experiment had gone wrong. Suppose you had made a mistake, Griff? Considering your impulsiveness, it is the least one could have expected of you—to make a mistake. Don't you think two months in each other's company, with no one to fill up the gaps, would have made the truth clear to you?"

"If you knew Kate as I do, mother," said the son, with a ridiculous air of possession, "you would see there could have been no mistake."

"Very proper, dear. You sound just like a lover, and I wouldn't be in any hurry, if I were you, to become a mere husband. Your father always forgot, to the end of the chapter, that we hadn't tumbled into love with each other the day before."