But midway between Princetown and Postbridge, where the road traversed the high Moor and stretched like a white thread between granite hills and glimmering marsh-lands, from whence the breeding plover called, Milly nearly dropped her basket. For along the way, in a borrowed market-cart behind his own brown pony, came her father.
“Why, where on airth be you drivin’ to, my auld dear?” she asked; and Mr. Sage, puffing and growing very red, made answer:—
“I be gwaine up-long to Princetown to holy worship.”
Now this was an action absolutely unparalleled. “To church! What for?”
“If you must knaw, ’tis that I may forbid your banns wi’ Ted Oldreive. No use to fret nor cry. I be firm as a rock ’pon it; an’ I be gwaine to deny them banns afore the face of the Lord an’ the people.”
“Why ever should ’e do such a cruel thing, dear faither?”
“Because no blood o’ mine be gwaine to mix wi’ that murdering villain’s.”
“He never told you he shot ‘Corban.’”
“D’you doubt it? Don’t the whole of Dartmoor know it?”
“Let me get up in the cart an’ sit beside you,” said Milly. “I want for you to look in this here basket.”