‘Perhaps it is,’ answered Thistlewood, with a dogged sigh; ‘but be that as it may, I can’t and shan’t. Where my fancy lies it stays. I didn’t give my heart away to take it back again. You’ll wed me yet, Bertha, and when you do you’ll be surprised to think you didn’t do it long before.’ At this point the voice of a third person broke in upon the colloquy. ‘That caps all!’ said the voice. ‘There’s Mr. Forbes, the Scotch gardener at my Lord Barfield’s, tells me of a lad in his parts as prayed the Lord for a good consate of himself. That’s a prayer as you’ll never find occasion t’offer, John Thistlewood.’ ‘Maybe not, Mrs. Fellowes,’ answered Thistlewood, addressing the owner of the voice, who remained invisible; ‘but I wasn’t speaking in a braggart way.’ ‘No--no,’ returned the still invisible intruder. ‘Wast humble enough about it, doubtless. You’m bound to tek a man’s own word about his own feelings. Who is to know ‘em if he doesn’t?’ ‘Just so,’ said Thistlewood, with great dryness. He appeared to be little if at all disturbed by the interruption, but Bertha was blushing like a peony. ‘I sat quiet,’ said the girl’s mother, leisurely walking round the door with a half-finished gray worsted stocking depending from the knitting-needles she carried in both hands,--’ I sat quiet so as not to be a disturbance. It’s you for making love to a maid, I must allow, John.’ The girl ran into the house and disappeared from view. ‘It’s me for speaking my mind, at least, ma’am,’ returned John, with unaltered tranquil doggedness. ‘Ah!’ responded the farmer’s wife; ‘you’re like a good many more of ‘em; you’d sooner not have what you want than go the right way to get it.’ Thistlewood digested this in silence, and Mrs. Fellowes set the knitting-needles flashing. ‘I’ve always fancied,’ he said in a little while, ‘as I had your goodwill in the matter.’ ‘You’ve got my goodwill, in a way to be sure,’ said the old woman. ‘You’d mek the gell a goodish husband if her could find a fancy for you--but the fancy’s everything--don’t you see, John?’ ‘I’m not above taking advice, Mrs. Fellowes,’ said Thistlewood, digging at the gravel with his walking-stick. ‘Will you be so good as to tell me where I’m wrong?’ ‘There’s one particular as you’re wrong in,’ returned Mrs. Fellowes, knitting away with a determinedly uninteresting air, ‘and, I misdoubt me, you can’t alter it.’ ‘What’s that?’ asked Thistlewood, looking up at her suddenly. ‘You’re the wrong man, John.’ ‘That remains to be seen,’ he answered, with the same dogged patience as before. ‘You can’t win a maid’s heart by going at her as solemn as a funeral,’ pursued the old woman. ‘If you’d ha’ begun sprightly with the gell, you might ha’ had a chance with her. “La!” says you, “what a pretty frock you’re a-wearing to-day;” or “How nice you do do up your hair for a certainty.”’ ‘I don’t look on marriage as a thing to be approached i’ that fashion,’ said Thistlewood.