Sweet halt in the journey of her life. Sweet music of water and song-bird. Sweet scent of rose and clematis climbing round the windows of the house. The very air laden with sweetness, so that Mace asked herself why she had ever felt unhappy when she was surrounded by such joys.
Not one word or thought had for hours been given to Sir Mark, and he had, as it were, dropped out of her memory for the time, till, just as supper was ready, Mace saw Tom Croftly making signs to her with the handle of his hoe.
She rose, and left her father talking earnestly with the parson, to go to where the foundryman was standing waiting for her to come.
“I’ve about terrified all them weeds, mistress,” he said, “and I’m going home. The bees be all right, and I’ve had a rare fine day; but there be some’at as I want to say to thee, child, and I don’t quite like to speak.”
“What is it, Tom?” said Mace. “Is it any thing I can do for you?”
“Yes, mistress, it be; though I beant quite sattled in my mind whether I ought to tell’ee. Did that there trug as I made you do, mistress?”
“Oh, capitally, Tom. It just holds enough fruit for one day’s picking.”
“That be right, mistress, and I be glad. I got the best ’ood I could. All alder ’ood, and well seasoned; and—”
“You want me to do something for you, Tom?”
“Well, yes, mistress. My pretty little mistress as I’ve knowed ever since thou couldst toddle. Thou won’t be hurt like and rate me if I speak?”