Poor Rose was by no means a flirt, but she was an innocent, straightforward girl, ignorant of many of the world’s ways, and of a trusting disposition. She found the conversation of Mr Clearemout agreeable, and did not attempt to conceal the fact. Mr Clearemout’s vanity induced him to set this down to a tender feeling, although Rose never consciously gave him, by word or look, the slightest reason to come to such a conclusion.
One forenoon Mr Clearemout was sitting in Mr Donnithorne’s dining-room conversing with Rose and Mrs Donnithorne, when the old gentleman entered and sat down beside them.
“I had almost forgotten the original object of my visit this morning,” said the managing director, with a smile, and a glance at Rose; “the fact is that I am in want of a man to work at Wheal Dooem, a steady, trustworthy man, who would be fit to take charge—become a sort of overseer; can you recommend one?”
Mr Donnithorne paused for a moment to reflect, but Mrs Donnithorne deeming reflection quite unnecessary, at once replied,—“Why, there are many such men in St. Just. There’s John Cock, as good a man as you could find in all the parish, and David Trevarrow, and James Penrose—he’s a first-rate man; You remember him, my dear?” (turning to her worse half)—“one of our locals, you know.”
“Yes, my dear, I remember him perfectly.—You could not, Mr Clearemout, get a better man, I should say.”
“I think you observed, madam,” said Mr Clearemout, “that this man is a ‘local.’ Pray, what is a local?”
Rose gave one of her little laughs at this point, and her worthy aunt exclaimed,—“La! Mr Clearemout, don’t you know what a local preacher is?”
“Oh! a preacher? Connected with the Methodist body, I presume?”
“Yes, and a first-rate man, I assure you.”
“But,” said Mr Clearemout, with a smile, “I want a miner, not a preacher.”