"Yes, sir," said Dorothy, demurely, "if you please."
"Humph, you have forgotten that you don't like boobies. How soon must I give you up?"
"Not before seven years, father, and another seven to that if it would make you sad to do it."
"Ah! A Jacob and Rachel sort of business, is it? But they say Hazel Copse wants a mistress now."
"I can't help that, father. Daisy-Meade wants a mistress too, and I am queen here until you choose to dethrone me."
"Well, well, my child, who knows but I may be—"
Dorothy's hand was on his lips, before what might be, could be spoken.
And if Mr. Hazelwood could have seen the mingled love and pain that were depicted on each face for the moment, he ought to have felt some compunction for the disturbance he had made.
"But what must be must, and should be faced manfully," the old Squire said. And he set about plans for furthering the hopes of his son-in-law elect, who had rashly quoted the patient patriarch in deference to the filial affection of his ladye love.
Before a year expired, he resigned his farm and its business into the hands of his son, who had qualified himself for the responsibility, and at the earnest desire of Mr. Hazelwood, took up his chief residence at Hazel Copse, where he could watch and be tended by his transplanted flower, and see her bloom into matronly beauty, the light of another home.