other young woman brought
me word of it, and it made me stick firm when my mind was doubtful."

"And glad you ought to be that you did stick firm. And you have the Lord
to thank for it, as well as your own sense. But no time to talk of
our old times now. They are coming up again, with those younkers, I'm
afraid. Willie is like a Church; and Jack--no chance of him getting the
chance of it; but Mary, your darling of the lot, our Mary--her mind is
unsettled, and a worry coming over her; the same as with me when I saw
you first."

"It is the Lord that directs those things," the farmer answered,
steadfastly; "and Mary hath the sense of her mother, I believe. That it
is maketh me so fond on her. If the young maid hath taken a fancy,
it will pass, without a bit of substance to settle on. Why, how many
fancies had you, Sophy, before you had the good luck to clap eyes on
me?"

"That is neither here nor there," his wife replied, audaciously; "how
many times have you asked such questions, which are no concern of yours?
You could not expect me, before ever I saw you, not to have any eyes or
ears. I had plenty to say for myself; and I was not plain; and I acted
accordingly."

Master Anerley thought about this, because he had heard it and thought
of it many times before. He hated to think about anything new, having
never known any good come of it; and his thoughts would rather flow than
fly, even in the fugitive brevity of youth. And now, in his settled way,
his practice was to tread thought deeper into thought, as a man in
deep snow keeps the track of his own boots, or as a child writes ink on
pencil in his earliest copy-books. "You acted according," he said; "and
Mary might act according to you, mother."

"How can you talk so, Stephen? That would be a different thing
altogether. Young girls are not a bit like what they used to be in my
time. No steadiness, no diligence, no duty to their parents. Gadding
about is all they think of, and light-headed chatter, and saucy
ribbons."

"May be so with some of them. But I never see none of that in Mary."

"Mary is a good girl, and well brought up," her mother could not help
admitting, "and fond of her home, and industrious. But for all that, she
must be looked after sharply. And who can look after a child like her
mother? I can tell you one thing, Master Stephen: your daughter Mary
has more will of her own than the rest of your family all put together,
including even your own good w