“Well, the squire don’t grow amiable as he grows older—he’s been crosser’n usual the last two years, and he hain’t never found a boy to suit him since you went away,” said Maria confidentially.
Clifford did not care to discuss the man’s disposition with her, and he adroitly turned the subject by inquiring:
“Maria, how would you like to come to Cambridge when I take my degree next June?”
“Do you mean it?” she demanded eagerly.
“I should not invite you if I did not mean it,” he gravely replied.
“Of course you wouldn’t—you never was a hypocrite, I’ll say that for you, and—and I’d just love to come,” the woman observed, with tears in her eyes. “I declare! I should just be too proud for anything!”
“Well, then, I will see that you have your invitation in good season,” said Clifford, deeply touched by her appreciation of the small attention.
Maria thanked him, and then, rising, he said he must go. He left a courteous message for Squire Talford; then, bidding her good-by, went away, but leaving a ray of sunshine in the lonely woman’s heart which warmed and cheered her for many a long month.
The squire merely grunted when, upon his return, she informed him of Clifford’s visit, but she could see that he was deeply interested in her account of him—what he had said, and how he had looked.
The remaining months of the year sped very swiftly for Clifford, many days seeming all too short, for he was working very diligently and perseveringly.