of wool as it was rolling down the terrace, and
slipped round in by the back way, fervently
praying the good fates to attend the squire, and
having great misgivings that they would not.

It seems that he did not do amiss. He
expressed himself in a manly, honourable manner,
and if Sarah Jane had been the owner of his
affections instead of Pet, the matter would have
been settled there and then, and I should have
escaped eight months of wear and tear of nerves
and feelings.

Pet refused the squire because she did not
know him enough.

He would wait until she knew him better.

She thought very well of him then, because
he was so kind to grandpapa.

She could not have affection such as should
be a wife's all in so great hurry.

He would wait—weeks, months, years.

No; she would have no waiting, she was
not in love with a wife's duties. She knew
nothing of men and their ways, and was not of
a mind to try to live with one.

"I must not force myself upon you," said
the squire. "I will leave you with this last
remark: I love you, and I shall never love any
other woman."

"My goodness me! To think of her resisting
that, and from the squire, too. Robert, she
does not know what she is refusing."

"No, she does not, Patty; you must talk to
her."

Talk to her! the whole parish talked to her.
Her grandfather, now getting strong and well,
talked to her until he had tears in his eyes.

"Child," he said, "you must not think
only of yourself. Remember the benefit to
your family. So kind and good a man will
doubtless make your brothers and sisters his
own. I am old; soon, probably, I shall be a
greater burden on your poor mother than the
youngest of her children. Who is to take care
of you all?"

"It is not right, grandpapa, to marry a man
for that."

"It is not," he answered; "but you are
thoughtless. What more can you require in a
husband than what is now offered you?"

"He is a man so tall—I love not men so tall."

Grandpapa spoke to the winds. This little
wild innocent creature could think of nothing
but flowers, and pets, and child's fancies. So the
squire wooed in vain, and my heart bled for him.

"Oh, Robert, what are we to do? If she
was only Sarah Jane for five minutes—if she was
only me."

"What! You would commit bigamy and
marry the squire?"

"It distresses me so to see him, Robert. He
was very thin before, and so awkward, but now
he is a walking-stick. Pray, Robert, don't
worry me with ridiculous ideas. I am miserable
enough as it is, and old Mr. Hamilton declares
be is well enough to go home."

"I think so too; I do not wish to seem
inhospitable; I wish no one to think me
unreasonable; but I own I look forward to having
my cottage and my wife once more to myself,
with a vast deal of pleasure."

"How can you be so unfeeling, Robert; you
don't think of what will happen if they go
away. The squire will never see Pet again,
and we shall have no lady at the Hall."

"Hah! Now a light strikes on me. We are
not wholly actuated by love of the squire, we
think a little of ourselves."

"Get away with you, Robert; no one being
by, I may tell you you are most provoking."

And Pet and her father did go away, and the
squire was left forlorn.

But Robert was properly punished for his
want of sympathy; for the poor squire was up
at our house, morning, noon, and night. He
came in the morning to ask if we had heard
from her. He came at noon, to talk about her,
and he came at night to ask me if I had written
to her. Hitherto I have presented our squire
to public view, as a man possessing negative
qualities or virtues. Yet I am happy to say
he was not so wholly different from the rest
of the world, as to be without some peculiarity
or virtue. He wrote the best hand, and the
best letter that any man could write.

Remembering this, I happily hit upon, the
idea that he should begin a correspondence
with Pet, sending the first letter under cover to
her grandfather. It was not to be a lover's letter,
but merely a chatty amusing friendly letter.

"Heaven help the squire," thought I, as he
started up on this proposal like a meagre figure
of famine, anxiously on the look-out for a hot
loaf from the oven. "How can he write
anything amusing or chatty!"

But he did. And he brought me the letter to
read.

Well, Pet did not answer the letter for days.
I thought the poor squire would vanish into thin
air. But, after he had written six letters at
least, he received one in return.

There was a solemn joy in his face, as he
appeared with the letter closely buttoned up in
the inner breast-pocket of his coat. He drew it
forth, as a man might draw forth a treasure that
no one else ever possessed, or could ever possess.

"It is short," he said, as he handed it to me,
at the same time giving a little chuckle, that you
might suppose a child would give over a box of
sugar-plums. Poor dear squire!—as I said to
Robert.

Here it is, spelling, grammar and all, just as
he had it:

"Dear Sir,—I will not go out into my new
bisness without a letter, eversomuch little as it
is to thank you, for the favour you have done
me. And which delight grandpapa, and my
mamma, and they both say, do much of an
honour to your little friend

"PET."

"How nice of her to conclude so, Patty!"
murmured the squire, as I finished reading the
letter.

My goodness me! To think of the squire,