t be choosers."

Mehetabel sprang to her feet.

"It is so. I am a beggar. I am only a charity girl, nothing else."

She struck her head against the wall. "Let me beat my brains out
if I am in your way. Why should I be thrown into the arms of any
passer-by?

"You misjudge and misunderstand me," said Mrs. Verstage, hotly.
"Because you have been with me so long, and because I love you, I
want to see you settled. Because I can't give you a prince in
spangles and feathers you fly out against me."

"I don't ask for a prince, only to be let alone. I am happy here,
as a girl, working for you and father."

"But we shall not live forever. We are growing old, and shall
have to give up. Iver may return any day, and then--"

The hostess became crimson to the temples; she knew how handsome
the girl was, doubly handsome she seemed now, in her heat and
agitation, and it occurred to Mrs. Verstage that Iver with his
artistic appreciation of the beautiful, might also think her
handsome, that the old childish fancy for each other might spring
to new and to stronger life, and that he might even think of
Mehetabel as a wife. That would never, never do. For Iver something
better must be found than a girl without means, friends, and name.

"What then?" asked Mehetabel. "Suppose Iver do come here and keep
the inn. I can go with you wherever you go, and if you become old,
I can attend to you in your old age."

"You are good," said Mrs. Verstage; but although her words were
gracious, her manner was chilling. "It is for us to think of you
and your future, not you to consider for us. The Broom-Squire--"

"I tell you, mother, I don't like him."

"You must hear me out. You do not love him. Lawk-a-jimmeny! we
can't all marry for love. You don't suppose I was in love with
Simon when I took him? I was a good-looking wench in my day, and
I had many admirers, and were more of tragedy-kings than Simon.
But I had sense, and I took him for the sake of the Ship Inn and
the farm. We have lived happy together, and if it hadn't been for
that matter of Iver, there'd not ha' been a cloud between us. Love
grows among married folk, like chickweed in a garden. You can't
keep it out. It is thick everywhere, and is never out o' season.
I don't say there ain't a ripping of it out one day--but it comes
again, twice as thick on the morrow, and much good it does! I don't
think I cared for Simon when I took him any more than you care for
Jonas, but I took him