But Fanny was not there; and when they went into the garden, she was not there either, nor yet in the orchard.
“She must have gone down the lane,” said Brother William—“down towards the river. Let’s go and see.”
They went out together, with Martha making no scruple now about holding on by Brother William’s sturdy arm. But though they walked nearly down to the river, Fanny was not there.
“She’ll be cross, and think we neglected her,” said Martha. “I am sorry we went away.”
“I’m not,” said Brother William, trying to be facetious for the second time that evening. “We’ve made half a dozen pounds o’ butter, and a match.”
Martha shook her head.
“Let’s go back and see if she went up to the wood,” cried Brother William.
“She’s reading somewhere,” said Martha as they walked back, to find Fanny standing by the gate, looking slightly flushed and very pretty, ready to smile and banter them for being away so long.
They soon ended the visit to the farm; for, after partaking of supper, and eating one of Brother William’s own carefully grown lettuces, they walked slowly back, in the soft moist evening air, to the Rosery, when, during the leave-takings, Brother William said: “Fanny, Martha’s going to be my wife.”
“Is she?” said Fanny indifferently. “Oh!” And then to herself: “Poor things! What a common, ordinary-looking woman Martha is. And Brother William—Ah, what a degrading life this is!”