"Yes, and you were right this time," said the artist; "but I'm not going to take in all these. Here, Will, pick out four brace of the best."

"Shan't!" said Will, shortly. "We get quite as many as we want. Take them all in yourself. One moment--send Mr Carlile up some instead.

Here, come on; it's going to rain again. My! Isn't the fall thundering down!"

Will was right. Another heavy shower was coming over from the hills; but it did not overtake the party before they had all reached home, and then Nature made up for a long dry time by opening all her reservoirs, to fill pool, gully, and lynn, the waters roaring for hours down the echoing vale, till the next morning the placid stream was one foaming torrent that seemed to threaten to bear away every projecting rock that stood in its way, while every sluice was opened at the mill to relieve the pressure of the overburdened dam.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A NIGHT GOSSIP.

As has been pointed out, the artist was a quiet man, and the tranquil life of the little village was exactly to his taste. Mrs Drinkwater looked well after his few wants, and until the disturbance at the mill, when Drinkwater had been turned off, there had been nothing to trouble him. Since that occurrence, however, he had frequently come across his landlady with traces of tears in her eyes, and that evening when after parting with the two lads he reached the pretty cottage, she came out to meet him at the gate.

"Oh, Mr Manners, sir," she said, "I'm afraid I'm afraid--"

"Afraid what of, Mrs Drinkwater?"

"I'm afraid that something's happened to my man. He has not been home to-day."

The artist led the poor woman into the kitchen.

"Sit down, Mrs Drinkwater," he said, kindly. "Now just listen to me.

I, too, am deeply concerned about Drinkwater. Can't you reason with him--make him see how wrong all this behaviour is, and convince him that he has only one sensible thing to do, namely, go and ask pardon of Mr Willows?"

"Oh, I do wish I could, sir; but Jem won't listen to me. He might listen to you, sir."

"Ah, but you see this is not my business, Mrs Drinkwater."

"No, sir, but he respects you, and he might perhaps pay attention to what you said."

"Maybe," said the artist, thoughtfully. "Well, I will see what I can do."

"Thank you, sir--thank you!"

"When did you see him last?"

"It's two days ago now, sir."

"Well, Mrs Drinkwater, we must hope for the best. I have always found your husband willing and obliging up to quite recently. It seems to me that if matters are put to him in a quiet common-sense way he will listen. Hang it all, he will have to listen! We can't have you crying your eyes out because he chooses to behave like a brute to you."

"Oh, my Jem really means well, sir," said the woman; "I know he does.

He has always been a good husband to me."

Late that evening the artist thought over affairs. It was a pleasant soft summer night, and when he was alone he quietly opened the cottage door, and lighting his pipe, sat down on the little rustic seat which was just outside. There was hardly a sound--nothing but the night wind sweeping through the valley, the far-off plash of water, the purring noise of a big moth as it flew past and then hovered a second, attracted by the gleam of the artist's pipe.

There was a step, loud and heavy, and Manners started to his feet as a burly figure suddenly appeared just in front of him.

"Hallo, Drinkwater!" he cried. "You, my man?"

"Me it is, Mr Manners."

"Oh, that's all right. I was wanting to see you."

"Wanting to see me? What for?" said the man, gruffly.

"Oh, for several reasons. I don't like my landlord to go off for days together, n.o.body knows where."

"Not wanted now," said the man, sourly--"n.o.body wants me now."

"That's not a fact, Drinkwater," said the artist, firmly. "Not a bit true. To begin with, I want you."

"Pictures to see too?"

"No, not pictures. I just want to talk to you; that's all. Have you got your pipe? Oh, I see you have. Here's my pouch. Come, fill and light up, and sit down here. It's a lovely night, isn't it?"

"Humph!" grunted the man, as he obeyed and began to smoke.

"Now," said the artist, cheerily, after a few minutes' silence, "what's wrong with you? At least, I need not ask that. You have quarrelled with your old friend and employer, for no reason, and it's no end of a pity, I can a.s.sure you. You will not mind my speaking out plainly like this, as man to man, for I have known you a long time now; and besides, I'm under a debt to you for helping me that night."

"Humph!" said the man again.

"Now," said the artist, "has all this sulking done you any good?"

"Good!" growled the man. "Good! No. There has been no good in my life. I have slaved it all away for a thankless taskmaster."

"Bah!" said the artist, with a laugh. "Mr Willows a taskmaster! Why, it's too absurd! He's one of the very best men that ever lived; and in your heart of hearts you know it, Drinkwater. You know it quite well."

"I want revenge," said the man.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the artist. "Revenge! Why, Drinkwater, it's really funny. Revenge! What are you going to do? Blow up the mill?"

"Eh?" said the man, shifting uneasily in his seat and turning to stare at his companion. "Blow up the mill? What, me?"

"There, there," said Manners, "I didn't mean it. It was only a joke.

Think it over, Drinkwater. Think it over," he continued, as the man rose; and the artist held out his hand, but whether it was the darkness which prevented his seeing the gesture, or for some other reason, the hand was not taken, and a moment later the man had entered the cottage, while the artist got up to follow him, for it was very late and he was tired.

"What has he got in his head?" he mused. "I don't like his manner at all."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

ON THE WATCH.

Josh and the Vicar were down at the mill in good time the next morning, to find Will and his father in the bright sunshine under a cloudless sky, on the bank overlooking the wide pool, and, just as they reached them, with a hearty "Good-morning!" Manners came up.

Overhead, all was bright and clear, and, from Nature's newly washed face, a fresh, sweet scent rose into the air; but the lower part of the valley seemed quite transformed. Sluices and waterfalls were gushing down everywhere, making for the main stream, which added to the general roar of water as it rushed along, racing for the overcharged river far away.