For I'm not a man to see you overdone with work, Phebe.

I've been thinking about it for the last five year, ever since you were a pretty young lass of fifteen.

'She'll be a good girl,' mother said, 'and if old Marlowe dies before you're wed, Simon, you'd best marry Phebe.' I've put it off, Phebe, over and over again, when there's been girls only waiting the asking; and now I'm glad I can bring you comfort.

There's a home all ready for you, with cows and poultry for you to manage and get the good of, for mother always has the butter money and the egg money, and you'll have it now.

And there's stores of linen, mother says, and everything that any farmer's wife could desire." Phebe laughed, a low, gentle, musical laugh, which had surprise in it, but no derision.