"He will be six and twenty in August."
"And Allan was twenty-five last March. And is Mr. Wornock an only son, like my Allan?"
"Yes. I have only him. When he is away, I am quite alone—except for my organ and piano. I try sometimes to think they are both alive."
"What a pity you have no daughter! A place like this looks as if it wanted a daughter. But you and I are in the same desolate condition. Allan is all I have—and my white farm."
"Mother, why not my white farm and Allan?" said her son laughingly. "If you knew more of my mother, Mrs. Wornock, if you knew her in Suffolk, you would be very likely to think the farm first and not second in her dear love. Perhaps you, too, are interested in farming."
Mrs. Wornock smiled a gentle negative, and gave a glance at the triple keyboard yonder, which was eloquent of meaning. A glance which seemed to ask, "Who could waste time upon cowhouse and poultry-yard when all the master-spirits of harmony are offering their mysteries to the faithful student?"
"Well, mother, how do you like the mistress of Discombe?" asked Allan, as they drove homeward.
"She is very refined—rather graceful—dreadfully shy," answered his mother, musingly; "and I hope you won't be angry with me, Allan, if I add that she seems to me half an idiot."
"You saw her to-day at a disadvantage," said Allan, and then lapsed into meditative silence.