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.’ And there the interview ended. IV It became evident that Bertha was likely to have a troublesome time before her. First of all came John Thistlewood, dogged and resolute as ever, propping himself against the chimney-piece, flogging his gaitered legs with the switch he carried, and demanding Ay or No before his time. Bertha determined to treat him with some spirit. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that I respect you very highly, Mr. Thistlewood. But you oughtn’t to need me to answer your question any more. I shall be obliged if you will be so good as not to ask it again.’ ‘I shall ask it,’ said the dogged John, ‘till it comes to be answered one way or another.’ ‘It has been answered almost often enough to my way of thinking,’ said Bertha. She had never been tart with Thistlewood until that moment, but he manifested no surprise or emotion of any kind. ‘It never has been answered, an’ never will be till I see thee married, whether to me or another. When that day come to pass you’ve heard the last of my question.’ Thus the dogged John; and he being disposed of for a while, came Lane. To him the persecuted maid was a little less severe than she had been, but she was inexorable. ‘If you like to come here as a friend, Mr. Protheroe, in a few months’ time, I daresay we shall all be very glad to see you.’ ‘Well,’ said Lane, with fine irrelevance, ‘as an enemy this is a house I shall never make a call at. But look at the matter for a minute, my darling----’ ‘You must not talk to me like that, Mr. Protheroe,’ Bertha said, with great coldness. ‘Like what, my dear?’ asked the ingenious Lane. ‘Like that, Mr. Protheroe,’ replied Bertha. ‘I think it so often, that I’m afraid I’m bound to say it sometimes; but, if it offends, I hope you’ll forgive me. You know you _are_ my darling, don’t you? You know there isn’t a queen in the world I’d even with you if every hair of her head was hung with Koh-i-noors. “Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh,” the Wise Man says. So, if I do let slip “my dear” or “my darling” now and then, you’ll know it’s accident, and you won’t take offence at it--will you?’ This was agile but unsatisfactory. ‘Please understand me, Mr. Protheroe,’ said Bertha, with rural dignity; ‘you must not come here again until you can come merely as a friend.’ ‘Bertha! You can’t mean it! What have I done? What has changed you?’