thence to the parsonage gate.  He spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length of his day’s journey.  But he stopped her at every turn that he might press her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness of her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight.  There were no more gibes now on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments on his coming and going.  With downright honesty she told him everything: how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion; how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise to take him at his first word, and had thought it better that he should return to London, and then think over it; how she had almost repented of her courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, that he would forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her old friend had told her that he was coming.

“And yet,” said he, “you were not glad to see me!”

“Oh, was I not glad?  You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who has lived secluded as I have done.  Glad is no word for the joy I felt.  But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much.  It was the knowledge that you were near me once again.  I almost wish now that I had not seen you till to-morrow.”  But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and this caress gave the lie to her last words.

“No, do not come in to-night,” she said, when she reached the little wicket that led up to the parsonage.  “Indeed, you shall not.  I could not behave myself properly if you did.”

“But I don’t want you to behave properly.”

“Oh!  I am to keep that for London, am I?  But, nevertheless, Captain Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper to-night.”

“Surely I may shake hands with your father.”

“Not to-night—not till—John, I may tell him, may I not?  I must tell him at once.”

“Certainly,” said he.

“And then you shall see him to-morrow.  Let me see—at what hour shall I bid you come?”

“To breakfast.”

“No, indeed.  What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkey and the cold pie?  I have got no cold pie for you.”

“I hate cold pie.”

“What a pity!  But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly after breakfast.  Come down—come down at two, or three; and then I will go back with you to Aunt Penelope.  I must see her to-morrow;” and so at last the matter was settled, and the happy Captain, as he left her, was hardly resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own.

When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, there still were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devon lore.  So Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting till they should go.  For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles and Poulter did go.  But it was not in such matters as this that Patience Woolsworthy was impatient.  She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbing herself for weeks and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyes good; but she could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words when things came to be discussed which she did not think to be good.

“Papa,” she said, when Gribbles’ long-drawn last word had been spoken at the door.  “Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would say if I were to leave you?”

“Yes, surely,” he replied, looking up at her in astonishment.

“I am going to leave you now,” she said.  “Dear, dearest father, how am I to go from you?”

“Going to leave me,” said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and thinking of nothing else.

Now, there had been a story about Helpholme.  That bedridden old lady there had a stalwart son, who was now the owner of the Helpholme pastures.  But though owner in fee of all those wild acres, and of the cattle which they supported, he was not much above the farmers around him, either in manners or education.  He had his merits, however; for he was honest, well-to-do in the world, and modest withal.  How strong love had grown up, springing from neighbourly kindness, between our Patience and his mother, it needs not here to tell; but rising from it had come another love—or an ambition which might have grown to love.  The young man, after much thought, had not dared to speak to Miss Woolsworthy, but he had sent a message by Miss Le Smyrger.  If there could be any hope for him, he would present himself as a suitor—on trial.  He did not owe a shilling in the world, and had money by him—saved.  He wouldn’t ask the parson for a shilling of fortune.  Such had been the tenor of his message, and Miss Le Smyrger had delivered it faithfully.  “He does not mean it,” Patience had said with her stern voice.  “Indeed he does, my dear.  You may be sure he is in earnest,” Miss Le Smyrger had replied; “and there is not an honester man in these parts.”

“Tell him,” said Patience, not attending to the latter portion of her friend’s last speech, “that it cannot be—make him understand, you know—and tell him also that the matter shall be thought of no more.”  The matter had, at any rate, been spoken of no more, but the young farmer still remained a bachelor, and Helpholme still wanted a mistress.  But all this came back upon the parson’s mind when his daughter told him that she was about to leave him.

“Yes, dearest,” she said; and as she spoke she now knelt at his knees.  “I have been asked in marriage, and I have given myself away.”

“Well, my love, if you will be happy—”

“I hope I shall; I think I shall.  But you, papa?”

“You will not be far from us.”

“Oh, yes; in London.”

“In London?”

“Captain Broughton lives in London generally.”

“And has Captain Broughton asked you to marry him?”

“Yes, papa—who else?  Is he not good?  Will you not love him?  Oh, papa, do not say that I am wrong to love him?”

He never told her his mistake, or explained to her that he had not thought it possible that the high-placed son of the London great man should have fallen in love with his undowered daughter; but he embraced her, and told her, with all his enthusiasm, that he rejoiced in her joy, and would be happy in her happiness.  “My own Patty,” he said, “I have ever known that you were too good for this life of ours here.”  And then the evening wore away into the night, with many tears, but still with much happiness.

Captain Broughton, as he walked back to Oxney Combe, made up his mind that he would say nothing on the matter to his aunt till the next morning.  He wanted to think over it all, and to think it over, if possible, by himself.  He had taken a step in life, the most important that a man is ever called on to take, and he had to reflect whether or no he had taken it with wisdom.

“Have you seen her?” said Miss Le Smyrger, very anxiously, when he came into the drawing-room.

“Miss Woolsworthy you mean,” said he.  “Yes, I’ve seen her.  As I found her out, I took a long walk, and happened to meet her.  Do you know, aunt, I think I’ll go to bed; I was up at five this morning, and have been on the move ever since.”

Miss Le Smyrger perceived that she was to hear nothing that evening, so she handed him his candlestick and allowed him to go to his room.

But Captain Broughton did not immediately retire to bed, nor when he did so was he able to sleep at once.  Had this step that he had taken been a wise one?  He was not a man who, in worldly matters, had allowed things to arrange themselves for him, as is the case with so many men.  He had formed views for himself, and had a theory of life.  Money for money’s sake he had declared to himself to be bad.  Money, as a concomitant to things which were in themselves good, he had declared to himself to be good also.  That concomitant in this affair of his marriage, he had now