“All ready to set forth, my lass?” he said gently—perhaps a little sadly. “Yes, Father, all ready.”
“Art thou glad to go, child?”
“I’d like well to see the world, Father.”
“Well, well! I mind the time when I’d ha’ been pleased enough to have thy chance, my lass. Be a good girl, and forget not the good ways thy grandmother has learned thee, and then I cast no doubt thou’lt do well.”
Jenny assented with apparent meekness, inwardly purposing to forget them as fast as she could. She ran into the garden when supper was over, to gather a nosegay, if possible, of the few flowers left at that time of year. She was just tucking a bit of southernwood into her bodice, when a voice on the other side of the hedge said softly,—
“Jenny.”
“Well, what do you want, Tom Fenton?” responded Jenny, in a tone which was not calculated to make her visitor feel particularly welcome.
It was one of Jenny’s standing grievances against Tom, that he would call her by her name. Robin Featherstone called her plain “Mrs Jenny,” which pleased her vanity much better.
“You’re really going to-morrow, Jenny?”
“Of course I am,” said Jenny.