‘Some of ‘em do,’ responded Mr. Protheroe, with profoundest gloom, which lightened suddenly into a smile as bright as sunshine. ‘But some of ‘em don’t run at all. And some of ‘em are as shallow as any puddle you’ll find along the road, only they’re so bemuddled you can’t see to the bottom of ‘em. You can plumb ‘em with your little finger, though, if you don’t mind soiling it.’ Now this innocent generalisation seemed gratuitously offensive to the absent Thistlewood, and chilled Bertha greatly. ‘That may be very true of some people,’ she responded; ‘but it isn’t true of all the quiet people in the world.. And I don’t think, Mr. Protheroe, that the people who make the greatest parade of their feelings are the people who really have the most to speak of.’ ‘Why, that’s true, too, of some people,’ returned Protheroe; ‘but there are all sorts in the world, dear. Some say a lot and feel a lot Some feel a lot and say nothing. Some say nothing and feel nothing. It may be a fault with me--I don’t know--but when I start to say a thing I want to say all of it. But surely a feeling isn’t less real because you don’t seem able to express it whatever words you choose.’ ‘Where the feeling’s sacred the words are sacred,’ Bertha objected. ‘Tell me what it is you fear about me,’ he besought her, leaning across the table, and searching her face with his eyes. ‘You don’t believe I should have a wandering mind if you said yes, and we should once be married?’ She had laid the book upon the table, and now betook herself to fingering the leaves again. ‘I’ve no right to pick faults in you, or give you lessons, Mr. Protheroe.’ ‘Oh yes, you have,’ he answered. ‘All the right in the world. If you’ll take in hand to show me my faults, I’ll take in hand to cure ‘em so far as a man may.’ ‘I don’t think you’re fickle,’ said the girl hesitatingly; ‘but I do think you’re shallow, Mr. Protheroe.’ ‘Not a bit of it, dear,’ he protested. ‘I’m as deep as Gamck. As for your still waters running deep, it’d be a better proverb to my mind to say deep waters run still--at times. Niagara’s deepish, folks say that have seen it. That’s not to say that I even myself with Niagara, you’ll understand, though ‘tis in my nature to splash about a good deal. But all that apart, Bertha dear, try to make up your mind to take me as I am, and help me to make a man o’ myself.’ At this point back came the farmer’s wife with a clatter of pails in the back kitchen to indicate her arrival in advance. Lane took his leave with a reluctant air, going away much more gravely than he had arrived. ‘Well,’ said Mrs. Fellowes, drawing her knitting from a capacious pocket and falling to work upon it at once, ‘hast sent Number Two about his business?’ Bertha cast an embarrassed look at her and blushed. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘you seem to find out everything.’