'

'He cared for a minute, perhaps,' Bertha said, her assumed indifference
and languor tinctured with bitterness by this time. 'He cared for a
minute, perhaps; just as he does about everything. I heard him whistling
an hour afterwards.'

The disguise was excellent, and might have deceived a woman who had
known her less intimately and watched her less closely, but it was
transparent to the mother.

'That's the trouble, is it?' said Mrs. Fellowes, gravely betaking
herself once more to her knitting. Bertha had been crying already, and
had hard work to restrain herself. 'Look here, my darlin',' the mother
said, with unwonted tenderness of tone and manner, 'if you can't read
your own mind, you must let a old experienced woman read it for you. The
lad's as the Lord made him. What we see in any o' the men to mek a fuss
about, the Lord in His mercy only knows; but, to my mind, Lane's 'the
pick o' ten thousand. He's alive, and that's more than _can_ be said
of many on 'em. He's a clever lad, he's well to look at, and he's
well-to-do.'

'Mother,' cried the girl, almost passionately, her own pain wrung her
so, 'he has no heart. He cares for a thing one minute, and doesn't care
for it the next. He pretends--no, he doesn't pretend--but he thinks he
cares, and while he thinks it I suppose he does care. But out of sight
is out of mind with him.'

'Makest most o' thine own troubles, like the rest on us,' said Mrs.
Fellowes philosophically. But, in a moment, philosophy made way for
motherly kindness, and, rising from her seat, she bestowed her knitting
in a roomy pocket and put her arms about her daughter's waist. 'Art fond
of the lad all the same,' she said. 'Ah, my dear, there's nothin' likely
to be sorer than the natur as picks flies in the things it's fond on.
There's a deal o' laughin' at them as thinks all their geese is swans,
but they're better off in the long run than them as teks all their swans
to be geese.'

Bertha said nothing, but she trembled a little under the caress, and her
mother, observing this, released her, went back to her chair, and once
more drew forth her knitting.

'I reckon,' she said, after a pause, 'as John Thistlewood's had the
spoiling of thee. Thee'st got to think so much o' them bulldog ways of
his'n, that nothin' less 'll be of use to any man as comes a-courtin'.'

'Don't talk about it any more, mother,' said Bertha, with an air of
weary want of interest. 'I have said good-bye to both of them