"'Ave ye heard as 'ow Miss Maryllia's goin' to marry that fine gen'leman wot's at Badsworth?" pursued Josey, presently, beginning to chuckle as he asked the question—"Roxmouth, they calls him;— Lord, Lord, what clicketin' talk, like all the grass-'oppers out for a fairin'! She ain't goin' to marry no Roxmouths, bless 'er 'art!— she's goin' to stick to the old 'ome an' people, and never leave 'em no more! I knows her mind! She tells old Josey wot she don't tell nobody else, you bet she do!"
John Walden tried not to look interested.
"Miss Vancourt will no doubt marry some day,"—he said, somewhat lamely.
"Av coorse she will!"—returned Josey—"When Mr. Right comes along, she'll know 'im fast enough! Them blue eyes ain't goin' to be deceived, I tell ye! But she ain't goin' to be no Duchess as they sez,—it's my 'pinion plain Missis is good 'nough for the Squire's gel, if so be a lovin' an' true Mister was to ax 'er and say—'Will 'ee be my purty little wife, an' warm my cold 'art all the days o' my life?'—an' there'd be no wantin' dukes nor lords round when there's real love drivin' a man an' woman into each other's arms! Lord—Lord, don't I know it! Seems but t'other day I was a fine man o' thirty odd, an' walkin' under the hawthorns all white wi' bloom, an' my wife that was to be strollin' shy like at my side—we was kind o' skeered o' one another, courtin' without knowin' we was courtin' ezackly, an' she 'ad a little blue print gown on an' a white linen sunbonnet—I kin see 'er as clear an' plain as I see you, Passon!—an' she looks up an' she sez—'Ain't it a lovely day, Joe?' An' I sez—'Yes, it's lovely, an' you're lovely too!' An' my 'art gave a great dump agin my breast, an' 'fore I knowed it I 'ad 'er in my arms a-kissin' 'er for all I was worth! Ay, that was so— an' I never regretted them kisses under the may-trees, I tell ye! An' that's what'll 'appen to Squire's gel—some good man 'ull walk by 'er side one o' these days, an' won't know wot he's a-doin' of nor she neither, an' love 'ull just come down an' settle in their 'arts like a broodin' dove o' the 'Oly Spirit, not speakin' blasPHEmous, Passon, I do assure ye! For if Love ain't a 'Oly Spirit, then there ain't no Lord God in the 'Love one another!' I sez 'tis a 'Oly Spirit wot draws fond 'arts together an' makes 'em beat true—and the 'Oly Spirit 'ull fall on Squire's gel in its own time an' bring a blessin' with it. That's wot I sez,—are ye goin', Passon?"
"Yes—I'm going," said John in an uncertain voice, while Ipsie stared up at him in sudden enquiring wonder, perhaps because he looked so pale, and because the hand in which he held the rose she had given him trembled slightly—"I've a number of things to do, Josey—otherwise I should love to stop and hear you talk—you know I should!" and he smiled kindly—"For you are quite right, Josey! You have faith in the beautiful and the true, and so have I! I believe— yes—I believe that everything—even a great sorrow—is for the best. We cannot see,—we do not know—but we should trust the Divine mind of God enough to feel that all is, all must be well!"
"That's so, Passon!" said Josey, with grave heartiness—"Stick to that, an' we're all right. God bless ye! I'll see ye Sunday if I ain't gone to glory!"
Walden pulled open the garden gate to shake hands with the old man, and to kiss Ipsie who, as he lifted her up in his arms, caressed his cheeks with her two dumpy hands.
"Has 'oo seen my lady-love?" she asked, in a crooning whisper—"My bootiful white lady-love?"
Walden looked at Josey perplexedly.
"She means Miss Maryllia,"—said the old man—"That's the name she's given 'er—lady-love—the thinkin' little imp she is! Where's lady- love? Why she's in 'er own house—she don't want any little tags o' babbies runnin' round 'er—your lady-love's got somethin' else to do."