Thus the position gradually developed. As yet her father had not spoken to Phoebe or pretended to any knowledge of what was doing; but there came a night, at the end of November, when John Grimbal, the miller, and Billy sat and smoked at Monks Barton after Phoebe’s departure to bed. Mr. Blee, very well knowing what matter moved the minds of his companions, spoke first.
“Missy have put on a temperate way of late days it do seem. I most begin to think that cat-a-mountain of a bwoy ’s less in her thoughts than he was. She ’m larnin’ wisdom, as well she may wi’ sich a faither.”
“I doan’t knaw what to think,” answered Mr. Lyddon, somewhat gloomily. “I ban’t so much in her confidence as of auld days. Damaris Blanchard’s right, like enough. A maid ’s tu deep even for the faither that got her, most times. A sweet, dear gal as ever was, for all that. How fares it, John? She never names ’e to me, though I do to her.”
“I’m biding my time, neighbour. I reckon ’t will be right one day. It only makes me feel a bit mean now and again to have to say hard things about young Blanchard. Still, while she ’s wrapped up there, I may whistle for her.”
“You ’m in the right,” declared Billy. “’T is an auld sayin’ that all manner of dealings be fair in love, an’ true no doubt, though I’m a bachelor myself an’ no prophet in such matters.”
“All’s fair for certain,” admitted John, as though he had not before considered the position from this standpoint.
“Ay, an’ a darter’s welfare lies in her faither’s hand. Thank God, I’m not a parent to my knowledge; but ’tis a difficult calling in life, an’ a young maiden gal, purty as a picksher, be a heavy load to a honest mind.”
“So I find it,” said the miller.
“You’ve forbid Will—lock, stock, and barrel—therefore, of coourse, she ’s no right to think more of him, to begin with,” continued the old man. It was a new idea.
“Come to think of it, she hasn’t—eh?” asked John.