CHAPTER II
A PESSIMIST
Three days before Christmas and an hour before dusk, Mr. Shillabeer, gun in hand, called at Coombeshead Farm, and Constance Stanbury opened the door for him.
"I'm that finger-cold," he said, "that I thought as I might make so free as to drop in and warm myself a bit afore going back."
"And welcome. Come in; come in. My husband will be home in a few minutes, so you'll have a bit of male company. We women be that chuckle-headed."
"No, no! Won't hear you run yourself down," said the 'Dumpling,' gallantly. "There's no better company in these parts than your company, and very few women be in it for sense alongside of you."
"Tea or cider?" she asked.
"A drop of tea, if 'tis making. And I'll leave a bird, if you'll please to accept it. The plovers are on the Moor very plenty. A hard winter's in store."
"Each be harder than the last nowadays," she answered. "And thank you, I'm sure. A plover's pretty eating, but too good for the likes of us."
"Don't you say that. You'm like me--take yourself too humble; but 'tis a mistake. People in the world always pull us a peg lower than our own conceit of ourselves. So we should screw up a peg higher--to be ready for 'em. How's Margaret? You'll never hear no two opinions about her--such an angel as she be."