‘Now that’s a pity,’ said Bob, looking regretfully after Anne. ‘I didn’t remember that she was a quick-tempered sort of girl at all. Tell her, Mrs. Garland, that I ask her pardon. But of course I didn’t know she was too proud to accept a little present—how should I? Upon my life if it wasn’t for Matilda I’d—Well, that can’t be, of course.’
‘What’s this?’ said Mrs. Garland, touching with her foot a large package that had been laid down by Bob unseen.
‘That’s a bit of baccy for myself,’ said Robert meekly.
The examination of presents at last ended, and the two families parted for the night. When they were alone, Mrs. Garland said to Anne, ‘What a close girl you are! I am sure I never knew that Bob Loveday and you had walked together: you must have been mere children.’
‘O yes—so we were,’ said Anne, now quite recovered. ‘It was when we first came here, about a year after father died. We did not walk together in any regular way. You know I have never thought the Lovedays high enough for me. It was only just—nothing at all, and I had almost forgotten it.’
It is to be hoped that somebody’s sins were forgiven her that night before she went to bed.
When Bob and his father were left alone, the miller said, ‘Well, Robert, about this young woman of thine—Matilda what’s her name?’
‘Yes, father—Matilda Johnson. I was just going to tell ye about her.’
The miller nodded, and sipped his mug.
‘Well, she is an excellent body,’ continued Bob; ‘that can truly be said—a real charmer, you know—a nice good comely young woman, a miracle of genteel breeding, you know, and all that. She can throw her hair into the nicest curls, and she’s got splendid gowns and headclothes. In short, you might call her a land mermaid. She’ll make such a first-rate wife as there never was.’