Plunkett stared, as Marigold burst into tears.
"Eh? You don't mean for to say you like Todd?"
"He's been nice to me,—and I do like him," sobbed Marigold. "But Mrs. Heavitree says—says he's not—"
"Not the sort to make a girl happy? No, I should think not. He's smooth-spoken, and when you've said that, you've said all. I wouldn't see you marry Todd,—not for anything you could name! I told him he'd best make himself scarce, and he said it was all a mistake,—he'd no notion of marrying nobody."
"Oh!" Marigold's cheeks flamed.
"That isn't how he's talked to you, oh?"
"I should think not! Father, I did think he was one that would speak true."
"Well, the best thing you can do is to see no more of him," said Plunkett decisively. "There's no sort o' dependence to be put on Todd. He's not fit for you, and you're a deal too good for him. And what's more, you'll never marry him with my will. So the sooner you can forget him, the better. I've said enough to stop his looking in here, again, in a hurry. And I'm sure you'd need be grateful to Mrs. Heavitree, for the trouble she's taken."
Marigold's thoughts reverted to the beginning of her Vicarage conversation. "There's something else too,—" she said, "something you'll be glad of. Mrs. Heavitree said I'd best not speak to mother, but I might to you." Then she told Plunkett about the doctor who was to arrive at the Vicarage, and about Mrs. Heavitree's kind intentions.
