“No; he’s up at the Hall. And the old Squire is dead and buried. I went to see his funeral, I did. It was a grand sight—such lots of carriages, and such a beautiful polished coffin, with a brass cross and a plate with red letters on it. I’d like to be buried like that myself some day.”
Joan smiled, but made no answer; and there was silence for a little time, while Willie thrashed the horse till his face was the colour of his hair.
“I say, Joan,” he said, when at last that long-suffering animal broke into a shuffling trot, which caused the dust to rise in clouds, “is it true that you are going to marry him?”
“Marry Sir Henry Graves! Of course not. What put that idea into your head, you silly boy?”
“I don’t know; it’s what folks say, that’s all. At least, they say that if you don’t you ought to—though I don’t rightly understand what they mean by that, unless it is that you are pretty enough to marry anybody, which I can see for myself.”
Joan blushed crimson, and then turned pale as the dust.
“No need to pink up because I pay you a compliment, Joan,” said Willie complacently.
“Folks say?” she gasped. “Who are the folks that say such things?”
“Everybody mostly—mother for one. But she says that you’re like to find yourself left on the sand with the tide going out, like a dogfish that’s been too greedy after sprats, for all that you think yourself so clever, and are so stuck-up about your looks. But then mother never did like a pretty girl, and I don’t pay no attention to her—not a mite; and if I was you, Joan, I’d just marry him to spite them.”
“Look here, Willie,” answered Joan, who by now was almost beside herself: “if you say another word about me and Sir Henry Graves, I’ll get out and walk.”