''Azel!' called her father.
'You won't go?'
'I mun. It's father.'
'And I shan't see you again-till you're married? Oh, marry me,
Hazel! Marry me!'
His voice shook. At the mysterious grief in his face—a grief that was half rage, and the more pitiful for that—she began to sob. Abel came up.
'A mourning-party, seemingly,' he said, holding his lantern so as to light each face in turn.
'I want to marry your daughter.'
Abel roared.
'Another? First 'er bags a parson and next a squire!'
'Farmer.'