He was a moody, morose, vindictive fellow, whom nobody liked, and had left the neighbourhood long before Peace.
Whither he had gone no one appeared to know, and, indeed, to say the truth, nobody seemed to care.
Thus matters stood when, at the close of one market day, Mr. Philip Jamblin arrived at the old “Carved Lion.”
He dismounted from his horse and went into the public room of Brickett’s hostelry. He had some business to transact with a malster whom he had appointed to meet there.
When this was over the two had divers and sundry glasses together, and soon after nightfall Jamblin’s steed was brought round to the front door of the inn.
The young farmer remounted, and trotted leisurely along Dennett’s-lane in the direction of his own home.
Upon arriving at that part of the lane where Peace’s workshop stood, he, much to his surprise and pleasure, beheld Nell at some little distance off, awaiting his coming.
“Why, sweetheart, who would have thought of seeing you, at this hour, too, when all good lasses should be at home?” said the former.
“Ah! Master Philip,” she answered, “I was sartin sure you’d be for coming this way, and that’s why I be here.”
“Ah! I see. Well, I’m glad to see thee, Nell, but ye bee’st a looking a little pale, I’m thinking.”