When Anne was crossing the last field, she saw approaching her an old woman with wrinkled cheeks, who surveyed the earth and its inhabitants through the medium of brass-rimmed spectacles.  Shaking her head at Anne till the glasses shone like two moons, she said, ‘Ah, ah; I zeed ye!  If I had only kept on my short ones that I use for reading the Collect and Gospel I shouldn’t have zeed ye; but thinks I, I be going out o’ doors, and I’ll put on my long ones, little thinking what they’d show me.  Ay, I can tell folk at any distance with these—’tis a beautiful pair for out o’ doors; though my short ones be best for close work, such as darning, and , that’s true.’  
‘What have you seen, Granny Seamore?’ said Anne.
 
‘Fie, fie, Miss Nancy! you know,’ said Granny Seamore, shaking her head still.  ‘But he’s a fine young feller, and will have all his uncle’s money when ‘a’s gone.’  Anne said nothing to this, and looking ahead with a smile passed Granny Seamore by.
 
Festus, the subject of the remark, was at this time about three-and-twenty, a fine fellow as to feet and inches, and of a warm tone in skin and hair.  Symptoms of beard and whiskers had appeared upon him at a very early age, owing to his use of the razor before there was any necessity for its operation.  The brave boy had scraped unseen in the out-house, in the cellar, in the wood-shed, in the stable, in the unused parlour, in the cow-stalls, in the barn, and wherever he could set up his bit of looking-glass without observation, or a mirror by sticking up his hat on the outside of a window-pane.  The result now was that, did he neglect to use the instrument he once had trifled with, a fine broke out upon his on the first day, a golden on the second, and a stubble on the third to a degree which admitted of no further .
 
His divided naturally into two, the boastful and the .  When Festus put on the big pot, as it is classically called, he was quite blinded ipso facto to the diverting effect of that mood and manner upon others; but when disposed to be or quarrelsome he was rather shrewd than otherwise, and could do some pretty strokes of .  He was both liked and abused by the girls who knew him, and though they were pleased by his attentions, they never failed to him behind his back.  In his cups (he knew those , though only twenty-three) he first became noisy, then excessively friendly, and then invariably .  During childhood he had made himself for his pleasant habit of down upon boys smaller and poorer than himself, and knocking their birds’ nests out of their hands, or overturning their little carts of apples, or pouring water down their backs; but his conduct became singularly the reverse of aggressive the moment the little boys’ mothers ran out to him, brooms, frying-pans, skimmers, and whatever else they could lay hands on by way of weapons.  He then fled and hid behind bushes, under faggots, or in pits till they had gone away; and on one such occasion was known to creep into a badger’s hole quite out of sight, maintaining that post with great firmness and resolution for two or three hours.  He had brought more vulgar upon the tongues of respectable parents in his native parish than any other boy of his time.  When other youngsters snowballed him he ran into a place of shelter, where he kneaded snowballs of his own, with a stone inside, and used these formidable missiles in returning their pleasantry.  Sometimes he got fearfully beaten by boys his own age, when he would roar most lustily, but fight on in the midst of his tears, blood, and cries.
 
He was early in love, and had at the time of the story suffered from the of that passion thirteen distinct times.  He could not love lightly and ; his love was earnest, cross-tempered, and even .  It was a positive agony to him to be by the object of his affections, and such conduct drove him into a if persisted in.  He was a to those who behaved towards him, with those who denied his superiority, and a very nice fellow towards those who had the courage to ill-use him.
 
This stalwart gentleman and Anne Garland did not cross each other’s paths again for a week.  Then her mother began as before about the newspaper, and, though Anne did not much like the errand, she agreed to go for it on Mrs. Garland pressing her with unusual anxiety.  Why her mother was so persistent on so small a matter quite puzzled the girl; but she put on her hat and started.
 
As she had expected, Festus appeared at a stile over which she sometimes went for shortness’ sake, and showed by his manner that he awaited her.  When she saw this she kept straight on, as if she would not enter the park at all.
 
‘Surely this is your way?’ said Festus.
 
‘I was thinking of going round by the road,’ she said.
 
‘Why is that?’
 
She paused, as if she were not inclined to say.  ‘I go that way when the grass is wet,’ she returned at last.
 
‘It is not wet now,’ he persisted; ‘the sun has been shining on it these nine hours.’  The fact was that the way by the path was less open than by the road, and Festus wished to walk with her uninterrupted.  ‘But, of course, it is nothing to me what you do.’  He flung himself from the stile and walked away towards the house.
 
Anne, supposing him really indifferent, took the same way, upon which he turned his head and waited for her with a proud smile.
 
‘I cannot go with you,’ she said decisively.
 
‘Nonsense, you foolish girl!  I must walk along with you down to the corner.’
 
‘No, please, Mr. Derriman; we might be seen.’
 
‘Now, now—that’s shyness!’ he said .
 
‘No; you know I cannot let you.’
 
‘But I must.’
 
‘But I do not allow it.’
 
‘Allow it or not, I will.’
 
‘Then you are unkind, and I must submit,’ she said, her eyes brimming with tears.
 
‘Ho, ho; what a shame of me!  My , I won’t do any such thing for the world,’ said the yeoman.  ‘Haw, haw; why, I thought your “go away” meant “come on,” as it does with so many of the women I meet, especially in these clothes.  Who was to know you were so confoundedly serious?’
 
As he did not go Anne stood still and said nothing.
 
‘I see you have a deal more caution and a deal less good-nature than I ever thought you had,’ he continued emphatically.
 
‘No, sir; it is not any planned manner of mine at all,’ she said earnestly.  ‘But you will see, I am sure, that I could not go down to the hall with you without putting myself in a wrong light.’
 
‘Yes; that’s it, that’s it.  I am only a fellow in the yeomanry —a plain soldier, I may say; and we know what women think of such: that they are a bad lot—men you mustn’t speak to for fear of losing your character—chaps you avoid in the roads—chaps that come into a house like oxen, daub the stairs wi’ their boots, stain the furniture wi’ their drink, talk rubbish to the servants, abuse all that’s holy and righteous, and are only saved from being carried off by Old Nick because they are wanted for Boney.’
 
‘Indeed, I didn’t know you were thought so bad of as that,’ said she simply.
 
‘What! don’t my uncle complain to you of me?  You are a favourite of that handsome, nice old gaffer’s, I know.’
 
‘Never.’
 ............