The new house pleaded for John Hunter, the content of a home, life with the young man himself. Elizabeth had reasoned away her distrust of the means by which her consent had been gained, but her heart clung to the desire to appear well before Mrs. Hunter. Something warned her that she must enter that house on an equal footing with the older woman.
“Well, he wants me, and I ought to be glad he is in a hurry. I’ll do it. I ought to have insisted last night if I meant to hold out, and not have let him misunderstand me. If it weren’t for his mother, I wouldn’t care.”
Having decided to accept the terms offered her, Elizabeth sat down in the shade of a clump of weeds and pictured, as she rested, the home which was to be hers. Compared to those of the farmers’ wives about them, it was to be sumptuous. She thought of its size, its arrangement, and the man who was inviting her to share it with him, and a glad little thrill ran through her. When Elizabeth began to sum up her blessings she began to be ashamed of having suspected John Hunter of duplicity in writing the letter.
“He told me he had no higher desires on earth than to do things for me,” she said, springing up and starting home with a song in her heart.
Mrs. Farnshaw, called to the door by the barking of the dogs, exclaimed:
“What in this world brings you home at this time of day?” Mrs. Farnshaw’s hands were covered with the dough of her belated Saturday’s baking.
“Just had to come, mummie; just had to come,” Elizabeth cried, giving her mother a rapturous little hug.
Mrs. Farnshaw ducked her head to avoid the manœuvre, saying petulantly:
“Look out! Can’t you see I’m in th’ flour up t’ my elbows.”
Elizabeth flicked her dress sleeve and laughed in merry derision.