I've got to say. I want you to be my—
what is it they call it, Susan?"

"I don't know," said she, half-laughing,
but trying to get away with all her might
now; and she was a strong girl, but she
could not manage it.

"You do. My— what is it I want you
to be?"

"I tell you I don't know, and you had best
be quiet, and just let me go in, or I shall
think you're as bad now as you were last
night."

"And how did you know what I was last
night? It was past twelve when I came
home. Were you watching? Ah, Susan!
be my wife, and you shall never have to
watch for a drunken husband. If I were
your husband, I would come straight home,
and count every minute an hour till I saw
your bonny face. Now you know what I
want you to be. I ask you to be my wife.
Will you, my own dear Susan?"

She did not speak for some time. Then
she only said, '' Ask Father." And now she
was really off like a lapwing round the
corner of the barn, and up in her own little
room, crying with all her might, before the
triumphant smile had left Michael's face
where he stood.

The " Ask Father" was a mere form to be
gone through. Old Daniel Hurst and William
Dixon had talked over what they could
respectively give their children long before
this; and that was the parental way of
arranging such matters. When the probable
amount of worldly gear that he could give
his child had been named by each father, the
young folk, as they said, might take their
own time in coming to the point which the
old men, with the prescience of experience,
saw that they were drifting to; no need to
hurry them, for they were both young, and
Michael, though active enough, was too
thoughtless, old Daniel said, to be trusted
with the entire management of a farm.
Meanwhile, his father would look about
him, and see after all the farms that were
to be let.

Michael had a shrewd notion of this
preminary understanding between the fathers,
and so felt less daunted than he might
otherwise have done at making the application for
Susan's hand. It was all right, there was
not an obstacle; only a deal of good advice,
which the lover thought might have as well
been spared, and which it must be confessed
he did not much attend to, although he
assented to every proposition. Then Susan
was called down-stairs, and slowly came
dropping into view down the steps which
led from the two family apartments into the
house-place. She tried to look composed and
quiet, but it could not be done. She stood
side by side with her lover, with her head
drooping, her cheeks burning, not daring to
look up or move, while her father made the
newly-betrothed a somewhat formal address
in which he gave his consent, and many a
piece of worldly wisdom beside. Susan
listened as will as she could for the beating of
her heart; but when her father solemnly and
sadly referred to his own lost wife, she could
keep from sobbing no longer; but throwing
her apron over her face, she sate down on the
bench by the dresser, and fairly gave way to
pent-up tears. Oh, how strangely sweet to
be comforted as she was comforted, by tender
caress, and many a low whispered promise of
love. Her father sate by the fire, thinking of
the days that were gone; Willie was still
out of doors; but Susan and Michael felt no
one's presence or absence- they only knew
they were together as betrothed husband and
wife.

In a week, or two, they were formally told
of the arrangements to be made in their
favour. A small farm in the neighbourhood
happened to fall vacant; and Michael's
father offered to take it for him, and be
responsible for the rent for the first year,
while William Dixon was to contribute a
certain amount of stock, and both fathers
were to help towards the furnishing of the
house. Susan received all this information
in a quiet indifferent way; she did not care
much for any of these preparations, which
were to hurry her through the happy hours;
she cared least of all for the money
amount of dowry and of substance. It jarred
on her to be made the confidant of occasional
slight repinings of Michael's as one by one
his future father-in-law set aside a beast or a
pig for Susan's portion, which were not
always the best animals of their kind upon
the farm. But he also complained of his
own father's stinginess, which somewhat,
though not much, alleviated Susan's dislike
to being awakened out of her pure dream
of love to the consideration of worldly
wealth.

But in the midst of all this bustle, Willie
moped and pined. He had the same chord
of delicacy running through his mind that
made his body feeble and weak. He kept
out of the way, and was apparently
occupied in whittling and carving uncouth heads
on hazel sticks in an out-house. But he
positively avoided Michael, and shrunk away
even from Susan. She was too much
occupied to notice this at first. Michael pointed
it out to her, saying, with. a laugh,

"Look at Willie! he might be a cast-off
lover and jealous of me, he looks so dark
and downcast at me." Michael spoke this
jest out loud, and Willie burst into tears, and
ran out of the house.

"Let me go. Let me go! " said Susan
(for her lover's arm was round her waist).
"I must go to him if he's fretting. I
promised mother I would!" She pulled
herself away, and went in search of the boy.
She sought in byre and barn, through the
orchard, where indeed in this leafless wintertime
there was no great concealment, up