back in a
moment to her old opinion of him. No rooted feeling in him--no
solidity--nothing to be sure of!

She made haste home, and there shut herself in her own room and cried.
Her mother walked upstairs, and finding the girl thus mournfully
engaged, sat down tranquilly beside her and produced her knitting.
The click of the needles had an effect of commonplace which helped to
restore Bertha to her self-possession, and in a little time her tears
ceased, and moving to the window she stood there looking out upon the
landscape. The monotonous click of the needles ceased, and she knew that
her mother had laid down her work in her lap and was regarding her. She
turned, with a ghost of a smile.

'You're thinkin', no doubt, as you're full o' trouble, my wench,' began
the mother, 'and it's no manner o' use in talkin' to young folks to try
an' mek out as a thing as pains don't hurt. But if you can only bring
'em t' understand as it won't hurt much by and by, you've done summat
for 'em, may be. What's the trouble, wench? Come an' tell thy mother.'

'It's all over now, mother,' said Bertha

'Not it,' returned Mrs. Fellowes, 'nor won't be yet a while. Beesn't one
as cries for nothing, like most gells. I was niver o' that kind myself.'

Bertha would not, perhaps could not, make a confidante even of her
mother in this matter, but Mrs. Fellowes had a remarkable faculty for
striking human averages, and she got near the truth in her guesses.

'There's one thing fixed and sure, my dear,' she said, 'and that is
as follows: ayther you must find a mind to wed one of 'em, or you must
pluck up a spirit and tell 'em you'll wed nayther.'

'I have told Mr. Thistlewood that I can never marry him,' said Bertha.

'And what about Lane?' her mother asked her.

'I can never marry him either,' the girl answered steadily. She had her
voice under perfect control, but her averted face and the very lines of
her figure enlightened the shrewd old mother.

'Hast told him so?' she asked.

'I have told him,' Bertha answered, 'never to speak to me again.'

'Hoity, toity, deary me!' cried the old woman. 'And what says he to
that?'

'He didn't greatly seem to care,' said Bertha, with a beautifully
assumed air of indifference.

'Maybe he didn't set such store by what you told him as to tek it in
earnest?'

'Oh,' said the girl, languidly and indifferently, 'he knew I meant it.'

'And didn't seem to care? My dear, you're talkin' of Lane Protheroe!