“If you think I’m wrong, say it, Phoebe,” he answered shortly. “If you’m against me, tu—”
“‘Against you!’ How can you speak so?”
“No matter what I say. Be you on his side or mine? ’Cause I’ve a right to knaw.”
“Caan’t ’e see ’twas faither’s gert, braave, generous thought to give ’e work, an’ shaw a lesson of gudeness? An’ then we meet again—”
“Ess fay—happy meetin’ for wife an’ husband, me up to the eyes in—Theer, any fule can see ’twas done a purpose to shame me.”
“You’re a fule to say it! ’Tis your silly pride’s gwaine to ruin all your life, an’ mine, tu. Who’s to help you if you’ve allus got the black monkey on your shoulder like this here?”
“You’m a overbearin’, headstrong madman,” summed up the miller, still white with wrath; “an’ I’ve done with ’e now for all time. You’ve had your chance an’ thrawed it away.”
“He put this on me because I was poor an’ without work.”
“He didn’t,” cried the girl, whose emotions for a moment took her clean from Will to her father. “He never dreamed o’ doin’ any such thing. He couldn’t insult a beggar-man; an’ you knaw it. ’Tis all your ugly, wicked temper!”
“Then I’ll take myself off, an’ my temper, tu,” said Will, and prepared to do so; while Mr. Lyddon listened to husband and wife, and his last hope for the future dwindled and died, as he heard them quarrel with high voices. His daughter clung to him and supported his action, though what it had been she did not know.