"The son saw the girl I told you of, and took great pains to make himself acquainted with her life-history, both before and after she ran away from the farm."
"For she did run away, and certain circumstances enabled him to guess why, but he knew her whereabouts, and bided his time. Dear me! I shall not be able to finish my story," said Mrs. Marsden—for, utterly broken down by emotion, I was sobbing audibly—"in fact, the last chapter has still to be written, and I must offer you my Christmas gift."
Mrs. Marsden opened the door, and Lawrence entered. "Here it, or I should say 'he' is, my dear. I do hope you will take him with a mother's blessing, and when the last chapter of the story is completed, you must turn story-teller, and let me know it."
Mrs. Marsden kissed me affectionately, put my trembling hand in the firm grasp of her son, left the room with less than her usual stateliness, and closed the door behind her.
"Lois, my dear, will you accept the mother's Christmas gift, and will you let me keep the hand she has placed in mine? You are the one love of my whole heart, Lois. Can you give me what I ask, darling, your love in return?" So spoke Lawrence.
No wonder I found it difficult to reply, but I did manage once to look up in his dear, honest face, and to tell him, though with trembling lips, that he was the one love of my life too. And he was content. This Christmas Day was my fifth milestone.
My story has grown to a greater length than I intended, so I will finish it as briefly as possible.
Lawrence told me that after I left the farm, he found out which room I had occupied, through seeing it undergoing the process of scouring and scrubbing, which invariably followed the departure of a visitor. He asked to see the room, in case he should bring another friend to Hailsby-le-Beck, and thus took the bearings of the porch. By putting two and two together, he judged that I must have heard the talk between him and Mr. Winn, and that my flight was the consequence of it.
About my address at Hillstowe, he had no difficulty. People who write little, exercise their memories more than those who do, and both Mr. and Mrs. Jennings remembered the name of the vicarage under whose roof I lived.
Then Lawrence knew that I must be his cousin's teacher, and having talked matters over with his mother, they joined in inquiries about my family and personal history, which satisfied them. The result was the little plot by which we all met at High Lea, and into which Mr. and Mrs. Baxendell had heartily entered, Mary Baxendell being the only member of the family who knew nothing of her aunt's intended Christmas gift.