and there was Mary Arthur standing before
us. A fine creature she looked, too. She
was in a tearing rage—and her eyes had
more of the devilish look in them than I had
ever seen before.

“For shame,” she said, to Will— “for
shame! What do you come here for, with
your low brawling ways. Who asks you to
come? Who wants you? Take him away
—home—anywhere out of this!”

It was a piteous sight to look at poor
Ding Dong Will, staring stupidly at her, and
breathing hard, as if there was a weight on
his chest.

“Mr. Temple,” says she, turning to him
quite changed, and with a gentle smile on
her face, “can you forgive me for all this?
That such a thing should have happened to
you in our house! But it shall never occur
again! Never—never!”

I could see he took her very easy, for he
was looking out at something, and she had
to say it twice over before he heard her.

“Sweet Mary,” said he, “don’t give yourself
a moment’s uneasiness about me. Let
things go as they like, so that you don’t put
yourself out.” Here he gave a kind of yawn,
and went over to the window.

She looked after him, biting her lip hard.

“Why don’t you take him away, as I told
you?” she says at last. “What does he
want here?”

I pitied him so much, to see him standing
there so beaten down, that I could not help
putting in my word.

“Well, I must say, Miss Mary, poor Ding
Dong Will didn’t deserve this,—from you, of
all people.”

“Hallo!” says Mr. Temple, coming back;
“is this famous Ding Dong Will from over
the way?”

“No other, sir,” says I.

“Here, Ding Dong Will,” says he, putting
out his hand, “we musn’t fall out. If I had
known it was you, you should have had the
passage all to yourself. You’re a fine fellow,
Will, and I’ve often admired the way you
swung the great hammer.”

She was biting her lips still harder than
before, but said nothing.

“Stop,” said he, “I have a great idea. So
this is Ding Dong Will! Whisper a minute,
Mary.”

He did whisper something to her, and you
never saw what a change it made in her.
She turned all scarlet, and gave him such a
wicked devilish look.

“This is some joke,” said she, at last.

“Not a bit of it,” says he, laughing; “not
a bit of it. Ah! You see I know what
goes on in the village!”

“I couldn’t believe that you mean such a
thing!” says she, getting white again.

“Stuff!” said he, very impatiently. “I tell
you, I am in earnest. Listen, Ding Dong
Will. I must be off to London to-morrow,
—the ladies there are dying to see me, so go
I must. Now, I know there has been
something on between you two,—don’t tell me,
I know all about it. So now, friend Ding
Dong, show yourself a man of spirit, and
settle it sharp. And I promise you, I’ll come
down myself to give the bride away, and
start you both comfortably.”

It was well for him he was looking the
other way, and didn’t see the infernal look
she gave him out of those eyes of hers. I
think if there had been a knife convenient,
she would have plunged it into him at that
minute. But she covered it all with a kind
of forced laugh, and said she wasn’t quite
ready to be disposed of so quickly, and then
made some excuse to run up-stairs. Mr.
Temple then yawned again, and went over
to the window, and wondered would it be a
fine night, as he had to dine out. Neither
of us spoke to him, for he was an unfeeling
fellow with all his generous offers. So we
left him there, and I brought back Ding
Dong Will to the Forge again.

About four o’clock that same day (it was
almost dark at that hour), when I was coming
home from buying something in the village,
I thought I saw him crossing over to the
Joyful Heart; and as I passed the porch, I
swear I saw the two of them (Mary Arthur
and he) talking in the passage—there was
no mistake about it—and she talking very
eagerly. Presently, she drew him into the
parlour, and shut the door. What could
bring him there now, after the morning’s
business? Well, I thought, he is a poor-
spirited creature, after all—a true spaniel!
He didn’t come in, I suppose for an hour
after that, and then in a wild sort of humour,
as if he had been drinking. But what do you
think of his denying that he had been near
the Joyful Heart at all, or that he had seen
her? Denied it flat! And then, when I
pressed him on it, and asked if I wasn’t to
trust my own eyes, he began to show his
teeth, and get savage. I was only a youngster
then, and so had to put up with his humours;
but I determined to leave him on the first
convenient excuse. Dear! how that man
was changed in a short time!

On this night he took a fancy that we
should go to bed early. He was tired, he
said, and wanted rest after the day’s trouble,
and his heart was heavy. So I gave in to him
at once, and we were soon snug in our little
cots on each side of the hearth: we used to
sleep of nights in a queer kind of place just
off the forge, all vaulted over, with arches
crossing one another and meeting, in a kind
of carved bunch in the middle. This might
have been the clergymen's pantry, or wine
vaults, may be, in the old times. Whatever
use they had for it, it was a very snug place.
I recollect there were all sorts of queer faces
with horns and hoods, all carved out in the
bunch; and I often lay awake at nights
looking at them, and studying them, and
thinking why they were grinning and