"You're a cupboard lover, my friend, I fear," said Peter.

The bear sat down, whoofed and whimpered, while his master twitched at the chain.

"Hungry, eh?" Peter poked him in the ribs. "You look like it; never saw a bigger bag of bones in my life! Here, you fellow, why don't you feed him better?"

"What's that to you?"

"I don't like to see a hungry brother."

"Get up," said the man to the bear; but it would not move, and continued to whimper and look at Peter. The gipsy grasped his stick in one hand, while he shortened the chain with the other. His temper was rising.

"Leave the poor brute alone," interposed Peter; "it's only crying for its supper, like little Tommy Tucker. Nay, now, leave it alone."

"Is it yours or mine, master?"

"Why, mine. See what a fancy it's taken to me!"

He laughed good-humouredly.

"I've a notion the beast would make a nice pet. What'll you sell him for, you fellow?"

The gipsy took no notice; he thought that Fleming was fooling him. He raised his stick threateningly, but before the sharp point, which the bear had learnt to know and fear, could descend, it was twisted out of his hands.

"Might is right," said Peter, with a broad grin.

The man was angry; his was a nature that could ill brook crossing. He clenched his fists, and came nearer, but he looked twice at his antagonist, and decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

Peter was not only broader than himself, but taller, and he had heard that the gentleman was a great wrestler.

"Ho, my good fellow," said Fleming, "are you going to fight me for him?

Better come into the inn and settle the matter over a pot of beer."

"What do you want the bear for, master?"

"To play with--poodles aren't in my line. I need something big. Besides, I've an idea you'll be sending him to the knacker's in a week or two, and I'd like to save him from such a fate."

The gipsy looked him over, wondering if he were in jest or earnest.

"Honest! quite honest!" said Peter, reading the man's glance.

The gipsy's eyes began to sparkle, and he turned towards the inn.

"Come on, master," said he; "if you wants the bear you shall have him."

They went in, while Jake the rat-catcher called after them:

"Don't let the fellow cheat you, lad. He wouldn't get sixpence for the carcase if he sold it for dog's meat. There isn't a crow-picking on its bones."

Peter and the gipsy were not long within. They came out laughing, the latter wiping his mouth, his dark, lean countenance showing signs of satisfaction.

Fleming pulled his flute out of his pocket, played the tune that the bear's master had been whistling, and the ungainly beast began to dance.

"Eh, lad, yon's a nice new pet you've gotten. Your mother will be main pleased to have it sitting in the chimney-nook," said one of the crowd.

"Take it to bed with thee," remarked Dusty John, who had long ceased to wonder at the vagaries of his son, but was rather pleased with them than otherwise. "It will keep thee warm o' nights."

"Nay, nay, it's ower moth-eaten to have much warmth in it. Best hap it up in camphor, Peter, and get some of Old Camomile's powder to put away the fleas."

Meanwhile Lucy had found Joel. The sun had set, and the rooks were flying home above Cringel Forest.

"Come with me up the dale," she said softly.

He was not disposed to be friendly.

"Cheer up, lad," she continued. "Let's be kind again."

With a face still lowering, and his whole frame the very embodiment of injured pride, he turned and walked beside her.

He was jealous of Peter, yet sensible that he was to blame, not she.

"You'd better marry Peter," he said at last, breaking the silence.

"Who talks of marrying?" replied Lucy, coolly.

"He's got money and brains. He'd make you a worthier husband than I."

He kicked the stones out of his path and switched the heads off the primroses that were growing by the wayside. The truth was, which Lucy did not know, that he had been betting and had lost. When they came to the edge of the forest, and the open dale lay before them, all gloomy with shadows, Lucy turned.

"Good-night, Joel," she said, and made as if to go. "I'm sorry you're so cross. It's spoilt my day, my only holiday; good-night."

But he flung his arm round her, his anger vanishing like a cloud that has discharged its ill humours.

"Stay," he said. "I know I'm a brute. But let us go back. There'll be more dancing, and we'll trip the moon up into the sky and out of it again. I'm a better dancer than Peter. He's too heavy on his toes--you found that, eh?--rather a clumsy fellow, too loose in the make to be a comfortable partner. Come back. Come and see the rockets and torches.

We'll have a good time, lots of fun. Who knows whether we'll see the wakes together again?"

She relented at once, dissolved like snow in the sun, when she heard the pleading tones of his voice.

"But I promised great-granny."

"Stay," he repeated, and began to draw her back to the forest.

"I daren't, Joel; she'd never forgive me."

"Only a little longer."

"Nay."