"No, no. No occasion, I'm sure. Don't let me put you to no trouble, Sarah."
"Very pleased," said Mrs. Bowden. "'Tis about David and your maiden you be here, of course?"
"So it is then. My children ain't nothing out of the common, you must know--haven't got more sense than, please God, they should have. But all the same Margaret's a very good, fearless girl, and kind-hearted you might say, even."
"Kind-hearted! Why, her name's knowed all up the countryside for kindness," said Mrs. Bowden. "She's a proper fairy, and we be very fond of her, ban't we, Elias?"
"Yes," said Mr. Bowden. "She's got every vartue but cash."
"She'm to have twenty-five pounds on her wedding-day, however. Of course to people like you, with large ideas about money, such a figure be very small; but her father's put it by for her year after year, and she'll have it."
"Well done, Stanbury!" said Mr. Bowden.
"They ban't tokened yet, and you might think us a thought too pushing, which God forbid, I'm sure," said Mrs. Stanbury, crumbling her cake and not eating it. "But it's going to be. I know the signs. Your David's set on her, and he's the sort who have their way. That man's face wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, if I may say so. Not that he'll get 'no' for an answer. There's that in my daughter's eyes when his name is named.--So 'tis just so good as done so far as they're concerned."
Mr. Bowden left his desk and came to the table. He poured out a glass of elderberry wine for himself and drank it.
"Listen to me," he said. "Wool is worth one shilling and sevenpence a pound, and David be going to buy fifty sheep. You might ax how? Well, his Uncle Partridge--Sarah's late brother--left him five hundred pound under his will; and when he marries and leaves here, he'll spend a bit of that on sheep--old Dartmoor crossed with Devon Long Wool. 'Tis a brave breed and the wonderfulest wool as you'll handle in England. The only care is not to breed out the Dartmoor constitution. I may tell you an average coat is twelve pounds of wool. So there you are."