must depend, I suppose, upon dear grandfather's pleasure about
me."

"It must rather depend," said I, though having no business to say it,
"upon your own good pleasure, Ruth; for all the world will pay court to
you."

"That is the very thing which I never could endure. I have begged dear
grandfather to leave no chance of that. When he has threatened me with
poverty, as he does sometimes, I have always met him truly, with the
answer that I feared one thing a great deal worse than poverty; namely,
to be an heiress. But I cannot make him believe it. Only think how
strange, Cousin Ridd, I cannot make him believe it."

"It is not strange at all," I answered; "considering how he values
money. Neither would any one else believe you, except by looking into
your true, and very pretty eyes, dear."

Now I beg that no one will suspect for a single moment, either that I
did not mean exactly what I said, or meant a single atom more, or would
not have said the same, if Lorna had been standing by. What I had always
liked in Ruth, was the calm, straightforward gaze, and beauty of her
large brown eyes. Indeed I had spoken of them to Lorna, as the only ones
to be compared (though not for more than a moment) to her own, for truth
and light, but never for depth and softness. But now the little maiden
dropped them, and turned away, without reply.

"I will go and see to my horse," I said; "the boy that has taken him
seemed surprised at his having no horns on his forehead. Perhaps he will
lead him into the shop, and feed him upon broadcloth."

"Oh, he is such a stupid boy," Ruth answered with great sympathy: "how
quick of you to observe that now: and you call yourself 'Slow John
Ridd!' I never did see such a stupid boy: sometimes he spoils my temper.
But you must be back in half an hour, at the latest, Cousin Ridd. You
see I remember what you are; when once you get among horses, or cows, or
things of that sort."

"Things of that sort! Well done, Ruth! One would think you were quite a
Cockney."

Uncle Reuben did not come home to his dinner; and his granddaughter said
she had strictest orders never to expect him. Therefore we had none to
dine with us, except the foreman of the shop, a worthy man, named
Thomas Cockram, fifty years of age or so. He seemed to me to have strong
intentions of his own about little Ruth, and on that account to regard
me with a wholly undue malevolence. And perhaps, in order to justify
him, I may have been mor