Then live as happy as you pleease.’”
“Who’s going to marry Matt, the miller, I wonder, Adam Olliver?” said Lucy Blyth, suddenly peeping over her father’s shoulder by the garden gate.
“Odd’s bobs,” said the startled hedger; “‘you come all at yance,’ as t’ man said when t’ sack o’ floor dropt on his nob. Why, Lucy, me’ lass, is it you? Ah’s waint an’ glad to see yer’ bonny feeace ageean. Come in a minnit. Judy! Judy! Here’s somebody come ’at it’ll deea your and een good te leeak at.”
Out came Judith Olliver, in her brown stuff gown and checked apron, a small three-cornered plaid shawl across her shoulders, and with her white hair neatly gathered beneath a cap of white muslin, double frilled and tied beneath the dimpled chin—as comely and motherly an old cottager as you could wish to see.
“Dear heart,” said Mrs. Olliver, as Lucy kissed her cheek, looking on the bright girl in unconstrained admiration, “Can this be little Lucy Blyth?”
At that moment a fine, tall, gentlemanly youth of some two-and-twenty summers, paused as he passed the garden gate. Turning his open handsome face toward the speaker, his eyes fell on the radiant beauty of the blacksmith’s daughter; he recognised the features of his childish “sweetheart” with a thrill of something more than wonder, and, resuming his walk, “Master Philip” repeated again and again Judith Olliver’s inquiry, “Can this be little Lucy Blyth?”
