when mr. mordecai cockey entered fox tor farm the spirit of grace malherb sank within her. had an executioneer appeared, she had felt no greater horror; for mr. cockey was a journeyman tailor, and, according to the custom of that time upon dartmoor, when clothes were needed, the maker of them came to his customers and took up his abode in farm or hamlet until local requirement was satisfied. a month's work or more awaited mr. cockey, and first among the articles to be fashioned with his skilful needle were certain gowns—a part of grace's wedding trousseau; for all men now knew that within the space of a few weeks miss malherb was to become mrs. peter norcot.

two trestles and a dozen boards completed mr. cockey's professional requirements in the servants' hall; and here, day by day, he sat and snipped and sewed, and sewed and snipped. he was a very full-bodied, pallid man, with flabby cheeks, mournful, watery eyes and a puzzled expression. he came from totnes, and often mourned that his itinerant labours required him to be much away from his wife and family. this tailor descended in direct line from mordecai cockey, the famous seventeenth-century bell-founder; and when he heard any one of those seven great bells that the bygone cockey had cast, he would lift his head where the musical monster thundered from some devon belfry, and nod respectfully, as to the spirit of his ancestor.

now mordecai worked at the wardrobe of the farm, and, elevated upon his trestles, held a sort of conference, and told the things life taught him. once during the dinner hour, several farm folk were at mr. cockey's feet, as he sat cross-legged amid his tools and ate his meal of bread and cheese. meat he might have had in plenty, but he explained to dinah beer that his sedentary life had long since turned him vegetarian.

"by god's blessing i can stomach cheese," he said, "an' if so be as a body's humours will cope with vinnied cheese, he may hope for a long life."

"be my breeches mended, mister?" asked tom putt. "'cause if so, i should like to don 'em afore afternoon. i've got a riding job as'll take me to holne by-an'-by."

"they'm done. i've double-seated 'em for 'e."

mr. cockey nodded towards the garment.

"you'm always as good as your word, i'm sure," said harvey woodman, "though how them fat hands of yours—as look more like bunches of parsnips than hands—can do such finnicky work makes me wonder."

"ah, i dare say a lot of things make you wonder," answered the tailor. "not but what i envy you your way of life, for 'tis healthier'n mine. you chaps, as till the earth, have no time to fret your intellects like what i do. ploughmen never band together and make trouble in the world. tailors be a very thinking race; but you'll not find they takes a hopeful view of human nature."

"then they'm small-minded," said beer firmly; "for, looked at all round, human nature be a very hopeful thing."

mordecai cockey sighed.

"you may be in the right. perhaps building of clothes do narrow the heart, for we grow apt to think 'tis our feathers make the birds. for that matter the world counts us but light. we'm slighted tradesmen, we tailors. they say it takes nine of us to make a man; though it only takes one to get a long family, as i know to my cost. thirteen children have i, an' all with the tailoring spirit in 'em except my eldest son."

"an' what might he be doing?" asked putt.

"well, he's a baker."

"a very honest trade."

"that's just what it ban't," declared mr. cockey. "they'm sly as lawyers; an' there's a damned sight more in bread than corn nowadays. a man may be eating his own great gran'faither; as i've said openly down to totnes, an' nobody contradicted me.

"god's word! they don't rob churchyards for their bones, do they?" asked woodman. "if i thought that, i'd never take bit nor sup to totnes no more."

"there's ways an' ways," explained the tailor. "bone goes in; as thus. man is earth, an' earth is bread; an' when they take the top spit off what was thought to be an old burial place of the ancients an' turn it over an' make a wheat field—what then?"

"'tis just short of a cannibal act!" declared woodman; for they never buried deep in them days."

"rubbish, harvey!" answered beer. "we ourselves be only the fatness of the earth when all's said. 'tis nature's plan; an' i see no harm in it at all."

"more don't i for that matter," declared cockey. "with my well-knowed feelings about human nature, you won't be surprised if i say that many a man's better as corn or cabbage than ever he was on two legs."

"then you don't believe in god, same as me," said kekewich grimly.

"not at all, not at all," answered the other. "i'm only saying a man's body is mud, an' his clothes is mud in shape of wool or flax; an' he's all mud to the eye; but as to his soaring spirit i won't hazard a word. a tailor must believe in god. 'twas him as gave the word for clothes an' put adam an' his lady into their first shifts of his own almighty making."

"you meet men whose spirits be the muddiest part about 'em, all the same," declared kekewich.

"so you will; but every thinking creature turned of fifty must have come across folks with souls looking out of their eyes. why, i've seed pictures in big houses where the paint had a soul! ess fay—beautiful dead an' gone women have pretty nigh spoke to me where i sat an' worked below their gold frames."

"i'll never believe in souls," said the older man. "we'm a vile race, an' no god of heaven would ever make such a poor bargain as to overbuy such trash as us at the price of his only son. why for should he? if he'd but lifted his finger, he might have had us for nought."

"the devil must be itching for you, kek," said harvey woodman.

"you'm no hand at argument, mr. kekewich," continued cockey; "for half the beauty of argufying is to hold close to the matter. you was saying as you didn't believe in souls; an' i was saying as i did. well, take an instance. there's miss grace malherb for who i be making this here lovely vest. be that bowerly maiden no more than the pink-an'-white china dust she goes in? if so, she's no better'n this bit of flowered silk."

"people can be good or evil, an' yet have no more souls than dogs," began the head man; but at that moment miss malherb herself entered as a bell rang to tell that the dinner hour was done.

the labourers departed to their work, and grace was left with mr. cockey. she came to beg a secret favour and now whispered it into the tailor's ear, though there was none but himself to hear it.

"if you command, it must be done," he said. "i know a mariner to the harbour at totnes, where the holne timber goes down dart to build his majesty's great warships. the man has goodly stores, an' will sell me so much bunting as i want—red, white and blue. i'm going down to-morrow for the day to get more cloth."

"and, before all things, keep it secret. not a whisper!"

"it shall be as you please, miss. an' i'll ax you to take this here vest along, an' put it on, an' let me see if 'tis all right."

"you work so dreadfully quick! you're sewing a shroud,—d'you know that, mordecai?"

"what a word! how comes it you want stuff for flags then?"

"ah! 'tis not for my wedding day. now, if you could fashion me a pair of wings to fly with——"

mr. cockey drew a thread through his needle.

"fine clothes don't make a happy marriage, i know," he said; "but they do put heart into a wedding party, an' speaking generally, they'm a great softener of life to females. a parcel from me has dried many tears—poor fools."

"i'm not married yet, however."

"no, but—lord! what's that?"

the tailor sat with his back to the window, and, unseen by him, a horseman had ridden up to it. now he stopped, rapped upon the casement with his whip, doffed his hat and grinned at grace. the glass was not good, and it distorted a countenance generally esteemed amiable and handsome.

"mercy on us, what a chap! 'tis a face like to satan!" cried cockey.

"that's the gentleman my father wishes me to marry," answered grace quietly.

"then i'm sure i beg pardon, miss. 'twas a twist in the glass."

"you caught sight of his soul—not his face," she said. the girl had turned pale, and now she hastily left the room.

much had happened since mr. norcot's last visit, and soon accident was to enlighten him in certain directions. mordecai cockey went off on the following morning and returned in eight-and-forty hours with various bales and packages. one of these he handed to grace in private, and she conveyed the parcel unseen to her chamber. its nature will presently appear. for the moment it suffices to say that miss malherb's secret concerned cecil stark, with whom, thanks to john lee, she had now established a correspondence. their letters grace showed to john openly for some time, but, perceiving that they were the joy of two lives, the messenger refused to read these missives more. grace still stood at the parting of the ways, nor knew that john lee's road was already chosen. the relation of three became difficult beyond endurance; stark understanding that john had access to all letters, chafed at the mystery, and naturally found little to admire in such control. he was meditating action when a sudden incident upset their former relations and quickened the catastrophe.

peter norcot, upon this, his last visit to fox tor farm before the wedding, pursued a customary course and endeavoured by imperturbable good humour and kindness to soften his lady's temper. he well knew the futility of the task, yet persevered.

on the night of his arrival grace had a headache and did not appear, whereupon he wrote her a letter and sent it to her by the hand of mary woodman.

"dear light of my eyes," said he, "i am quite broken-hearted to know that mordecai cockey has a greater place in your affections just now than any other man. it is the tailor's hour! well, well! i must be patient. yet what can a tailor do to make grace more graceful? here's a beautiful epigram from our own devon poet, browne. i transcribe it for you:

"'to cupid.

"'love! when i met her first, whose slave i am,

to make her mine why had i not thy flame?

or else thy blindness not to see that day;

or if i needs must look on her rare parts,

love! why to wound her had i not thy darts?

since i had not thy wings to fly away?'

how cruel well these lines fit one norcot! but i would never fly. true love is patient—like charity it suffereth long; like hope it is eternal; like faith it keeps its course with the stars. bless you! may the morning light restore you to health, and to the presence of your devoted peter.

"postscript:—

"'if all the earthe were paper white,

and all the sea were incke,

'twere not inough for me to write

as my poore hart doth thinke.—lyly.'"

to this letter came no reply; but in the morning grace appeared as usual and spent a reasonable portion of her time with the wool-stapler. for once mr. norcot tried an erotic vein, quoted the most passionate things he knew and attempted to warm a heart that—moonlike—ever turned one face to him. but it was the dark frozen side he saw.

"my ideas are boundless," he said. "i spurn space on the day i call you my own. you were meant to mirror the mediterranean in those wonderful eyes of yours, and you shall. we'll sail away to the land of wine and song—to provence, the cradle of the troubadours. it can be done now that we are friends with the french again. yes; and i'm going also to take you to italy; i——"

"at the beginning of the hunting season? how ridiculous you are, peter. why, even if i married you—which you know i never shall—i would not——"

"grace, you must marry me. it is an accomplished fact. the banns have been read for the first time of asking at widecombe and at chagford. nobody forbade 'em. you are absolutely vital to my peace of mind, to my well-being, to my sanity. you may not love me yet, but soon enough you'll look back to these wayward days and mourn 'em."

"indeed i shall."

"mourn 'em, that you could so often have made so true a man sad. you won't understand me."

"yes, i do—perfectly. if there is one thing about our dreadful relations that i do see clearly, it is your nature. you have been peculiarly and horribly clear of late. you want me—what you call 'me'—my curls, eyes, lips, and all the rest of a wretched girl. but you don't care a feather for the part of me that matters. you never consider that i've got a soul, and that it's always sad and sick and sorry when it thinks of you. you don't mind that you're killing all my higher senses and instincts—poisoning them; you——"

"now, my dear grace, these assumptions are nonsense, and show first how little you really know about me, and, secondly, how absurdly scant attention you pay to my conversation. it is a union of souls that i sigh for and shall assuredly establish when the time comes.

"'tell me not of your starrie eyes,

your lips that seem on roses fed,

your breasts, where cupid tumbling lies

nor sleeps for kissing of his bed—'

george darley—a pretty boy-poet who has not published yet."

"really, peter, you're impossible!"

"i say tell me not of these things, grace, because they are nothing whatever to me. i don't want to hear about 'em. soul to soul—that's all i ask; and that is what i will have."

"never! it takes two people to be married, and they've got to be of the same mind."

"happily you are mistaken in that last assertion. your idea is that one lover may take a maid to church, but the bench of bishops can't make her his wife if she's averse. tut, tut! what a violent thought! we'll find ourselves of one mind yet. greater things than matrimony have happened in less time than lies before us."

"plain english is wasted upon you, peter norcot, and upon my father too."

"i'm much afraid you'll hear some exceedingly plain english yourself before long—from that same father. he grows singularly savage of an evening when you have retired. how clear lies your duty—why do you so shirk it? is your conscience taking a holiday? you know better than you speak—i'm positive you do."

many such-like futile conversations passed between them; then befell the accident aforesaid. it placed some sensational information in the hands of peter, and, little guessing at the result, he hesitated not to avail himself of it.

there came an afternoon when he sat with maurice malherb; while the master mentioned grace and inquired how matters progressed in the affair of peter's courtship.

"to tell you truth, a very retrograde business. i had done better to have copied your own unbending methods. but i'm a soft-hearted fool. what says the poet? those writing men always know such a deal about it!

"'he that will win this dame, must do

as love does, when he bends his bow;

with one hand thrust the lady from,

and with the other pull her home!'"

"i'm amazed that any child of mine—but words only waste air now. the wedding day's at hand. she'll be the first to see her own folly when she looks back upon it. obey she must and shall. to-morrow i purpose to have speech with her. things have reached a climax. heaven knows whence she got this sullen and mulish humour. not from me."

"nor from her mother, i'm very sure. would she was more like your wonderful lady.

"'prudently simple, providently wary,

to the world a martha and to heaven a mary.'

annabel is a jewel among her sex."

"a wise man chooses his wife," said malherb, "but it is denied him to choose his daughter. to-morrow, at any rate, we'll try and make the matter clear to her. i hate force. i am naturally a man of mild manners; yet this thick-headed world will never understand me until i clench my fist."

"one thing i must beg," interrupted peter. "don't surprise her. don't suddenly appear before dear grace. it would not be fair. i passed her chamber door yesterday, and by chance it stood ajar. she sat there busy with her needle; and the purpose to which she was putting it nearly startled me into an ejaculation. she does not know that i saw her. candidly, i wish that i had not done so. there are sad secrets—'she loves a black-hair'd man.' in fact, there is somebody dearer to her than either you or i. what did i see? 'sight hateful—sight tormenting!' stars and stripes—stars and stripes—but all stripes to me. i'll swear each one has left a bruise upon my soul!"

"what, in god's name, are you ranting about?" cried malherb impatiently. "is everybody going mad, or have i already become so?"

"you must ask gracie that question. i saw her enfolded in a mass of red, white, and blue bunting. there is nothing in that. bunting may stand for joy.

"'the things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,

but wonder how the devil they got there.'

and i wondered the more since these coloured rags were taking upon themselves the likeness of the united states national flag. now, what is that notable emblem doing under this roof? i would not deny my future wife any rational amusement, but——"

peter stopped, for maurice malherb had hurried from him.

the father strode straightway to his daughter's room, found the door locked and kicked it open with a crash, to see grace sitting beside her window half hidden under billows of bunting.

in the year 1814, america's banner consisted of fifteen alternate red and white stripes with fifteen stars arranged in a circle on the blue canton. helped by designs from cecil stark, grace was carefully reproducing the historic standard upon a generous scale; and her father surprised her in the act to fit the last star into the circle. upon one star was the word "vermont," embroidered with white silk, and round about it ran a tiny margent of golden thread.

"what means this, woman?" roared malherb.

"why, that you've broken into my private chamber, dear father, and kicked the door down. and this—this, that i am making, is a flag of freedom for mr. cecil stark and his friends. they hoped to hoist it above their prison and rejoice at the sight of it on the fourth of july—a very glorious day among them."