“Oh, not so ill as that, Tom! But next time she bids you go and take up with somebody else, just tell her you mean to do so, and ‘there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.’ That’s the way to tackle the likes of her; not to look struck into the dumps, and fetch sighs like a windmill.”
“But I don’t mean it, Kate,” said Tom, looking puzzled.
“Oh, be not so peevish, Tom! Can’t you say so?”
“No,” answered Tom, with sudden gravity; “I can’t, truly. I’ve alway looked for Jenny to be my wife one day, ever since I was as high as those palings; but I’ll not win her by untruth. There’d be no blessing from the Lord on that sort of work. I can’t, Kate Lavender.”
“Well, I never did hear the like!” exclaimed Kate. “You can’t think so much of Jenny as I reckoned you did, if you stick at nought in that way.”
“I think more of Jenny than of anyone else in the world, Kate, and you know it,” said Tom, with a dignity which Kate could not help feeling. “But I think more yet of Him that’s above the world. No, no! If ever I win Jenny—and God grant I may I—I’ll win her righteously, not lyingly. I thank you for your good meaning, all the same.”
“Good even to you both!” said an old man’s voice; and they turned to see the speaker coming down the lane. He was a venerable-looking man, clad in a long brown coat, girt to him by a band of rough leather; his long, silvery hair fell over his shoulders, and under his arm was a large, clasped book, in a leather cover which had seen much service.
“Uncle Anthony!” cried Tom. “I knew not you were back. Are you on your way up the hill? Here, prithee, leave me carry your book. Good even, Kate, and I thank you!”
“Good even!” said Kate, with a nod to both; and Tom tucked the big book under his own arm, and went forward with the traveller.