She was obliged to turn round and look at him, and as she did so she laughed, but it was a poor kind of laugh, and there was plenty of light for John to see that she had just been crying.
"What is it, Mary?" he said gravely, and he laid his hand over hers on the top rail of the stile.
"It's nothing, thank you."
John knew very well that Mary's troubles, though always bravely borne, were never far to seek. He had often agreed with his mother in wondering how a girl like Mary could put up with such a home as hers, with her father's roughness and ill-temper, her stepmother's selfish meanness, with nothing except the sense of duty to brighten life and make it something better than a dull, hard round of daily tasks. Mrs. Randal knew more about Mary than her son did, though hardly from what the girl herself had told her, for she was a proud girl, and never spoke of her own feelings. But Mrs. Randal in her gentleness had a way of reading people's thoughts sometimes, and as she sat in her chimney corner, she had made plans of her own in which both John's future and Mary Alfrick's were very deeply concerned. She had said nothing to either of them. So far as she knew, John had at present no thought of marrying; but she had long decided that if he was ever to bring home a wife, Mary Alfrick must be the girl.
"Look up, then, Mary," said John, and the tenderness in his voice crimsoned the girl's cheek, and made her tears overflow again. "Come, we're old friends, ain't we? What is it, my dear?" he said.
Mary shook her head. In spite of her tears, a smile trembled about her mouth. "It's nothing," she murmured again.
They were both silent for a few minutes. The sun, slowly going down, threw the yew-tree shadows longer and darker across the churchyard grass. Beyond in the warm sunshine the children were playing quietly; sweet little voices ringing now and then among the graves. Lily, very busy with her daisies, had not seen John coming, or certainly, by this time, her arms would have been round his neck. She did not see him now as he stood on the other side of the stile, close under the shade of the great yew, though a shaft of golden light was shining on his face as he looked up at Mary.
"Look here," he said presently; "listen to me a bit. I want to tell you something. Mind you, Mary, I know you're a thousand times too good for me."
Mary shook her head again, and the smile deepened. John's grave face, as he watched her, brightened too into a smile.
"But you are, you know," he said. "Mr. Alfrick would look higher for you than a village blacksmith. I've known that a long time, and now and again it's made me wish I'd gone to London long ago and got into some higher branch, such as my uncle's talked about, and Mr. Bland too. There's ironworkers earning pounds and pounds a week with some of the big firms, and it's work as I could do. But mother wouldn't have liked to leave the old house and shop, and it always seemed to me I hadn't much but her to think on—'cept when I've thought on you, Mary."