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"When be you thinkin' to marry again?"

"Never," she answered, straight and at once, halting with a hand on her hip and eyeing him.

"Dear me; but you will, I hope."

"Not to you, anyway."

"Laws me, no! I don't want 'ee; haven't wanted 'ee these ten years. But I'd a reason for askin'."

"Then I'm sure I don't know what it can be."

"True--true. Look'ee here, my dear; 'tis ordained for you to marry agen."

"Aw? Who by?"

"Providence."

Naomi had treated Long Oliver badly in days gone by, but could still talk to him with more freedom than to other men. Still standing with a hand on her hip, she let fall a horrible sentence about the Almighty--all the more horrible in that it came deliberately, without emphasis, and from quiet lips.

"Woman!" cried a voice above them.

They turned, looked up, and saw the bent figure of a man framed in the street doorway. This was William Geake, who walked in from Gantick every Saturday to collect the si