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“My darter, young sir, Sally by name. Theer’s a bowerly maid for ’e! An’ so gude as she’m purty; an’ so wise as she’m gude most times. Awnly eighteen year auld, though all woman, I assure ’e. But tokened, maister—tokened to a sandy-headed giant by name of Jan Aggett—her awnly silly deed, I reckon.”

“The best fellow in the world,” said Timothy.

“Maybe, but who be gude enough for the likes o’ she? My li’l rose of Sharon her be; an’ the husband as I’d have chose should have been somebody, ’stead of nobody. But theer she is, an’ I lay you’ve never seed a purtier piece in all your travels, have ’e now?”

The blacksmith grinned affectionately, held Sarah’s arm in his grimy grip and surveyed his daughter as he had gazed upon some prize beast or a triumph of the anvil.

“Doan’t heed un,” burst out Sally, her grey eyes clouded, and her face as red as her gown. “Never did no girl have such a gert gaby of a faither as me. His wan goose be a royal swan, an’ he do reckon all the countryside must see wi’ his silly eyne an’ think same as him—fond auld man!”