Bella appeared to him by far the most pliable and soft-hearted young woman of his acquaintance, as well as the prettiest. His children did not like her, but that was natural. The young Pipers had so strong a bent towards ignorance that they would have hated any one who tried to teach them. Mr. Piper was not going to be governed by his children’s prejudices. The very best thing he could do for them would be to give them such a step-mother as Bella. The girls were wild, rough, and tomboyish. Constant intercourse with a well-mannered young woman would tone them down. ‘She’s every inch the lady,’ Mr. Piper said to himself, ‘and she’ll make ladies of my gals, if they’ll let her.’ Bella had long been conscious of a lurking gallantry in Mr. Piper’s manners, which made that worthy little man odious to her. She had avoided him as much as possible, hurrying out of the dull handsome house directly the formal hours of study were over. She had absolutely refused all his invitations to luncheon, despite his reproachful assertion that she was wanting in compassion for his widowed and lonely state. ‘You have your daughters for companions, Mr. Piper,’ she replied to those charges. ‘You can’t want me.’ ‘But I do,’ retorted Mr. Piper. ‘My gals are no company for me. They haven’t mind enough, and they’re not pretty enough. I like to see a pretty face on the other side of the table, when I sit down to my victuals.’ Bella shuddered. Could any girl--even one who had known poverty’s sharp stings from her cradle upwards--consent to marry a man who talked about victuals? There was no harm in the word; it was neither obscene nor blasphemous, but it was revolting. Although reproachful, Mr. Piper was not vindictive. The spring and summer that followed poor Mrs. Piper’s death were seasons of fatness and plenty for the Scratchell family. Mr. Piper was always sending Mrs. Scratchell some offering from his model farm. Cream, butter, poultry, vegetables, the first fruits of the season, forced into premature being at much cost of money and labour, came to the Scratchell door in delicious succession. The young Scratchells grew epicurean, and turned up their noses at rhubarb pudding with a crust two inches thick. They wanted early gooseberries, tasting of the wood. Mr. Piper’s servants--who stopped longer in his service now that the careful housewife was gone--had a good deal to say about these small gifts. It was evident which way the wind was setting. Miss Scratchell would soon be mistress of the Park. ‘There will be a second Mrs. Piper before Christmas, or else my name ain’t Martha Blair,’ said the cook. ‘And Miss Scratchell will be the party.’ ‘Well,’ sighed the housemaid, without looking up from her stocking-darning, ‘if he’s bent on marrying he may as well marry her as any one else. She’s haffable and heven-tempered, I should think.’