"Well?"

"He is not bad; but he is man."

"You cannot marry a woman."

"I not marry at all. Why not be the friend,
the great friend, dear friend?" And as she
said this, she was more scarlet than ever I was
in all my life.

"She must love him," I thought, and rushed
again to the charge. "You must marry him,
Pet. Think how happy you will make us; how
you will delight your grandfather, relieve your
mo——"

"Hush! hush! Was ever so bad a Patty?
A girl marries because she loves, not for riches
and friends."

"To be sure; so she ought."

"And he—he—do you think that he must be
married for good of his wife's friends? I think
more of him than you; oh so foolish Patty."

"You do, indeed, Pet. The poor dear good
darling squire ought to be married for himself.
And can't you love him?"

"I have much love, great respect—so much,
that if he was not the squire, so rich, so great,
I should say I can love, but not marry."

"And why not marry, supposing the squire
became poor?"

"I love not marrying." And she blushed
deeper and deeper.

"Why? Why?" I asked all curious and
anxious.

She put her rosy lips to my ear, whispered
something, and then sprang away, laughing with
all her might.

What a ridiculous creature! Why, I no more
minded—indeed I was quite anxious—but how
am I to tell it here? Perhaps I had better say
that I told Robert. Robert laughed heartily,
and says he: "If Pet objects to being kissed
by the squire when she accepts him, we will
get him to forego the ceremony."

That was her whisper.

Such a ridiculous idea! What could have
put it into her head? To be sure, when Robert
told me he was going to marry me, I did not
think it at all a certain fact until he had kissed
me, and then I knew that for evermore I was
his and he mine.

"Come, don't cry about it," said Robert.
"One thing is pretty certain to me: if Pet refuses
the squire because she has an objection to being
kissed by him, I will bet you fifty pounds she
ends in marrying him."

I never was so perplexed. I was in such a
state, that I really was almost—not quite—glad
when Pet's time was up, and she had to go back
to her governessing.

CHAPTER II.

SUCH a ridiculous idea!

I kept saying this to myself, as soon as ever
I saw the squire again; for, though he was very
tall and a little grim-visaged, yet he had a handsome
mouth, very fine teeth, and—in short, one
might be saluted by somebody much worse.

Indeed, the squire was improving vastly.
Hitherto he had worn clothes seemingly to
oblige his valet. Or, too nervous to have his
measure taken, he had got his valet to undergo
the operation, and was sufficiently thankful to
be clothed in anything, without trouble, to care
whether they fitted or not. He had also until
now considered that the principal use of shirt-
collars was to hide himself behind them, while
his wristbands were always so alarmingly
demonstrative, that a weak imagination was led to
fear his shirt must be going to make an exit
that way.

Now, he had not only a fashionable collar,
but absolutely one of those little ties that
Robert says are meant for grasshoppers, not men;
in short, the squire not only looked fashionable
and well got up, but also seemed to feel quite a
comfort in the change. Being obliged to face
the world boldly, now that there was not a fraction
of collar to creep behind, he did so resolutely.
And his confidence—upon my word, his
confidence about Pet's loving him at last beat
Robert's all to nothing.

"My goodness me, Robert, if he is
disappointed after all," said I to Robert, behind our
bed-curtains one night.

"Wait until he is, Patty."

"But I feel for him so, poor fellow; and he is
going to paper and paint, and new furnish the
house, and alter the entrance, and put in a bow-
window to the summer drawing-room—and
suppose he does it all for nothing! However, it
will amuse him, I hope, and make the time
pass."

Never, in the memory of the oldest
inhabitant, had anything been done to the Hall.
For my part, I was not born to be great, and
live in grand old halls. I never went into the
squire's house without longing to whitewash
the whole of it. I hope nobody will be angry
with me, but I love clean white things. I never
looked at all the fine old carving without
conjecturing how many pecks of dust were secreted
away in all those little holes and crannies. The
gilding, doubtless, was grand, but it was
mightily tarnished. The furniture was—but,
good gracious me, the squire is not the only
person in England with a grand old, time-
worn, motheaten, black-oaked, ebony-furnished,
gloomy, faded, massive, moaning-doored palace
of a place, and so I will say no more about it.
Of course it was rather a shock to him to
have a London upholsterer down from town,
and consult with him confidentially and
familiarly. However, that prepared our shy squire
for the whole tribe of workpeople that shortly
swarmed all over the Hall. He gazed with
quite a pleased look on a multitude. All the
hammering, knocking, planing, sawing, whistling,
singing, and noise, delighted instead of
annoying him. The poor lonely fellow regarded
all his workpeople as friends, and chatted with
them in a most amiable manner.

On the squire's learning that Pet's favourite
colour was blue, the old Hall stood in danger of
becoming entirely revivified in cerulean hue—
the squire seemed to think there was no other