"Went to see Stockbridge and Hamlyn off."
"Then, they are gone?" she asked.
"Gone, sure enough. I was the last friend they'll see for many a long year."
"How did Stockbridge look? Was he pretty brave?"
"Pretty well. Braver than I was. Mary, my girl, why didn't ye marry him?"
"What—you are at me with the rest, are you?" she answered. "Why, because he was a gaby, and you're another; and I wouldn't marry either of you to save your lives—now then!"
"Do you mean to say you would not have me, if I asked you? Pooh! pooh! I know better than that, you know." And again the shrubbery rang with his laughter.
"Now, go in, Tom, and let me get out," said Mary. "I say Tom dear, don't say you saw me. I am going out for a turn, and I don't want them to know it."
Tom twisted up his great face into a mixture of mystery, admiration, wonder, and acquiescence, and, having opened the gate for her, went in.
But Mary walked quickly down a deep narrow lane, overarched with oak, and melodious with the full rich notes of the thrush, till she saw down the long vista, growing now momentarily darker, the gleaming of a ford where the road crossed a brook.