"I help you all I can," put in Martha sullenly. "I bring you more than I take from you, anyway."

"Oh, I'm not sayin' anythin' agen you, my dear, I'm only p'intin' out how things do seem to go wrong wi' us all roads. Here's Mr. Davidge talkin' o' leavin' us, an' him only jist come. I was reck'nin' up last night as we mid manage to make a livin' at last."

Martha's eyes met David's with a look of reproach which he could scarcely have withstood even if the older woman's appeal had not already pierced him to the heart.

"There, let's say nothin' more about it," he cried hastily. "I'll make shift to get up a bit earlier-or maybe you'd let me take my breakfast up-along with me-then I wouldn't have to come back an' forth so often. If you give me my coffee in a little can I d' 'low Mrs. Cornick 'ud heat it up for me."

"Well, I dare say I could do that," rejoined Miss Strickland somewhat grudgingly. Once the immediate pressure of anxiety was removed, her normal condition of mind returned.

"Of course it'll mean a lot o' work gettin' the coffee ready an' that so early i'the marnin', but I mustn't expect to be considered, such a poor, down-trodden mortal as I be."

"I'll get the coffee ready for myself, if that's all," said David cheerfully. "A sailor's a handy man, ye know. Now then, where's the saucepan? That's the coffee, isn't it, in the little cannister?—I can smell en from here." "There'll be no milk to be had for another half hour," said Jane, who had been following his movements with a narrow and suspicious gaze.

"No need to bother about milk," rejoined her lodger; "a bit o' sugar is all I want-here it is-brown sugar, that's the stuff! Now then, I'll boil 'em up together, ye see, an' the grounds do sink to the bottom-'twill pour off so

clear as anythin'-Can I have this little can?"

"Well, it's the milk can," rejoined his landlady plaintively, "but ye can have it for to-day."

"All right; I'll get one for myself tomorrow."

Meanwhile, Martha, having made the tea, of which most village householders partake on first rising, and which has no connection with the breakfast proper, poured out a cup of it for David, and cut and buttered a slice of bread.

"There's a little drain of milk left in this jug," she remarked in a lifeless voice. "He can have it, can't he, aunt?"

"No, keep it for yourself, Miss Strickland," said David, jerking away his cup. It was noticeable that neither he nor Martha addressed each other.

"Now, can I do any little odd jobs for ye before I go?" he presently inquired of the elder woman. "Do ye want another pail o' water?"

"Well, it mid come in handy-but if you're in a hurry, Mr. Davidge, my niece can fetch it."

"No, I'll do it," said he.

"I'll pour this out into the tub, then," said Martha, without looking at him. Having emptied the pail into a large, flat tub, she handed it to the young man, who immediately went out with it.

The well was situated at the back of the cottage, and was somewhat difficult of access, owing to the fact that two old apple trees which grew on either side had extended their gnarled boughs in such a manner as almost to meet across it. It apparently had not occurred to Miss Strickland that by a little judicious pruning this inconvenience could be obviated, or perhaps she imagined that the lopping of the wood would entail a corresponding shrinkage of the crop.

David, who had mastered the intri

-cacies of the situation on the previous night, now screwed himself adroitly between the branches and doubled himself in the requisite manner over the winch. The sun struck down through the interlacing boughs on his brown neck, and the crisp hair which was beginning to curl again, a few drops of river moisture beading it still here and there.

As he backed away with his pail from beneath the apple trees, and regained an upright position, he saw that Martha was watching him from the other side of the leafy screen, the pale oval of her face showing through the green tracery with a delicate effect, which was, however, somewhat marred by the undue brilliancy of lips and hair. David gave a little start of annoyed surprise, and spoke roughly. "Did your husband often fill a pail for 'ee at thik well?"

"No," said Martha shortly.

"Then I don't see what need ye have to be spyin' arter me," he returned, in the same rough, almost fierce tone.

A wave of color swept over her face, but she paused a moment before replying; then she said in a low voice:

"I came out to ask you something." "An' what's that?" rejoined he, stopping short so suddenly that the water splashed out of his brimming pail.

"Is it on my account that you thought of givin' up lodging here?"

"Well, I'll tell ye plain," said David. "I don't like bein' followed about, an' I don't like bein' watched. If I'm to bide here, I must come an' go free."

He broke off for a moment, but resumed with redoubled vehemence. "A man midn't always fancy bein' told he reminds folks o' a dead man."

Martha moved out of his way so as to let him pass, but returned no answer.

She was standing on the same spot when David emerged from the house,

having deposited his pail indoors, and she could hear his quick, light tread pass down the little path and lose itself amid the windings of the lane. Presently she followed, walking noiselessly, so as to avoid attracting the attention either of her aunt or of David himself. Slipping through the gate, she crossed the road, ascending the lane a little way, until she caught sight of the man's retreating figure.

How foolish she had been last night! The new lodger was taller and slighter than Dick, his figure was better balanced and more closely knit, his step, with its elasticity, bore as much relation to her husband's as the swinging gait of a thoroughbred does to that of an ordinary roadster.

"Yes," she said, half aloud," "Twas a foolish fancy. He isn't like Dickhe's like no man I've ever seen before."

CHAPTER XIV.

In spite of the very strong hint which David had given to Martha, she continued to watch his movements, to hang upon his words, and to perform sundry small, unwished-for services on his behalf. He was no coxcomb, and indeed had little knowledge of the ways of woman, but he could not altogether blind himself to these portents. Far from being flattered by them, the dislike which he had originally felt for Martha deepened to something almost amounting to abhorrence, and he was obliged to use the utmost constraint in order to prevent this from becoming apparent. But a strong sense of the injury which he had done her caused him to make strenuous efforts to avoid wounding her, and moreover prevented his seeking a lodging elsewhere. had not spoken to Tamsine of his secret misgivings, some instinctive feeling of chivalrousness to both women prompting this reticence. Indeed, he forgot all cares and anxieties when he and she met in the enchanted dell;

He

for the fairy-tale order of things continued-Shepherd Davidge served his mistress faithfully during the working hours, and David Chant wooed his sweetheart at sunset.

One evening, having returned from this blissful hour, he was working in Miss Strickland's little garden in accordance with a request from her. Presently Martha, issuing from the house, began to water the flowers in the border beneath the windows. He feigned at first not to observe her presence, but by-and-by discovered that she was standing close to him. As he stooped over the row of cabbages he was planting he noticed that her dress was a colored one, moreover, that her shoes were neat and carefully polished, and the thought flashed across him that her aspect had changed for the better during the last few days, and that she had left off many of her slatternly habits. He continued, however, to plant out his cabbages without speaking, and then she came a step nearer.

Catch," she said, tossing something towards him. He was obliged to look up and extend his hand, receiving a half-blown rose, of the cabbage order, and extraordinarily sweet.

"Ah," he said, as indifferently as he could, "twas a pity to have picked that. I was noticin' it comin' into bloom."

"It would have been too big," she said, "if I hadn't gathered it now. You can have it-I picked it for you."

"What should a man want wi' flowers?" asked David, moving towards her on his knees, and tendering back the rose to her. "Best take it indoor an' put it in water."

"A man wears a flower sometimes in his coat, doesn't he?" rejoined she, looking curiously down at him, "particularly if it is given to him by a woman."

"Maybe so," rejoined he gruffly; "I know nothin' about such things."

As she did not take the rose, he laid it down on the path beside her, and returning to his cabbages, dibbled one in with an infinity of care.

Martha laughed softly.

"Why, how old are you, Mr. Davidge?"

"Twenty-six, I think," he rejoined without raising his head.

"Twenty-six at least, I should say," returned she, and David felt with irritation that her eyes were appraising his stooping form. "And do you mean to tell me that you know nothing about women-that you've never had anything to do with them?"

David slowly rose, brushed off the soil from the knees of his trousers, and came to her; he had taken a sudden resolution.

"No, I don't mean to tell 'ee that, Mrs. West," he said deliberately; "there's been one woman what I've had to do with, an' what I've loved, but only one. I've never fancied nor looked at, nor given a thought to any other-nor ever will."

He saw a kind of wave of pallor overspread the face which had already seemed pale, and he noted how her clasped hands tightened their grip of each other.

"Have you know this woman a long time?" she asked in a husky voice. "Yes, three or four years."

"And never thought of anybody else! Why, they say a sailor has a wife in every port." Here Martha uttered a harsh laugh. "And didn't you even have a bit of fun with a girl like the rest when you went ashore? I can scarce believe that tale, Mr. Davidge."

"Ye may believe it, then," he retorted. "I had the thought o' my own girl ever an' always before me I didn't want no others. I won't say but what I had many a bit o' fun of different kinds," he went on. "Yes, I got into scrapes now an' agen, like other lads, but I've always left the women alone."