"A godly mother you've got, my dear, and a godly husband you'll have. Come in and take a sup."
Jacob Bullstone's eyes were about the place while he smiled on the old man.
"How's Mrs. Parsons?" he asked,
"Nicely. She was here a minute agone. Dogs I see. When was you known without a dog? I'll call her."
Mr. Catt, who farmed Bullstone with a widowed daughter to keep his house, brought them to the kitchen, and Margery praised the room. It was rosy-washed, of surprising cleanliness and bright with brass upon the mantel-shelf and copper on the walls. There hung two warming-pans of ancient pattern and, between them, an 'eight-day' clock.
"You're a thought slow," said Jacob; then came Milly Parsons.
"Wish you both good luck and good fortune," she said, shaking hands with them. "When's it going to be, master?"
"Next November, Milly; and I'm hopeful you and Mr. Catt will mind the day and come along as my guests."
She brightened.
"Thank you, I'm sure. A great compliment."