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Tom Clemmer knocked out his pipe upon his crutch. Then he threw an exultant glance about him.

‘What might a man do then, ye’d think? Well, as marigolds warn’t no good, I tries laylocks. Not a bit on it! Jerrineums—wuss an’ wuss! Roses—never so much as a sniff! Summut useful, thinks I; but they little spring onions as I tied up in a bunch wi’ yaller ribbin, an’ hung on th’ dairy gate fer her, there they hung ’til they was yaller too. Then I has a grand idee. Off I goos to Stavisham, an’ buys a gurt big hamber brooch; an’ a silver necklace wot weighed down my pocket, carryin’ of it; an’ a spanglorious goulden weddin’-ring. “Now, my gel, we’ll jest see!” sez I all th’ way hoame. I bides quiet ’til Sunday, then I hides ahent th’ gurt elver-tree, an’ pops out upon her suddentlike, as ’a cooms along. I offers her th’ brooch. “Get out o’ my way!” sez she, “’tis jest a common ha’penny fairin’— No, ’tis hamber, ’tis real purty!” ’a sez, an’ brings up stock-still. Then out cooms th’ necklace, an’ down went ’a’s good book slap i’ th’ dirt. “Oh! ’tis kind o’ ye, blacksmith!” sez she, ketchin’ hould on’t. “Ah! but what thinks you o’ this here?” sez I; “but I mount gie it ye yet awhile, ’cause ’tis unlucky fer a maid to ha’ th’ ring afore th’ day.” Lor! what eyes ’a had, surelye! ’A thought a bit, then sez she, “Thomas Clemmer, how much ha’ ye got laid by?” An’ soon as I’d tould her, sez she, “I’ll ha’ ye, Tom, darlin’, fer I never loved nane but you!” Ah! well, well! Most onaccountable, ’tis, how th’ very wureds cooms back to ye, arter years an’ years!’