‘Well,’ returned the old woman, clicking her needles with added rapidity, ‘I’ve always said there’s no end to the folly o’ men. D’ye hear that there cuckoo? Go and catch him wi’ shoutin’ at him. An’ when next you’re in want of toast at tay-time, soak your bread in a pan o’ cold water.’ Thistlewood stood for a time in a rather dogged-looking silence, sometimes glancing at the notable woman and glancing away again. Her eye expressed a triumph which, though purely dialectic, was hard for a disappointed lover to endure, even whilst he refused to recognise his disappointment. ‘I should regard any such means of gettin’ into a maid’s good graces as being despisable,’ he said, after a while. ‘Very well, my Christian friend,’ the farmer’s wife retorted, with a laugh. ‘Them as mek bread without barm must look to spoil the batch.’ ‘I was niver of a flatterin’ turn of mind,’ said Thistlewood. ‘You niver was, John,’ responded Mrs. Fellowes, with an accent which implied something beyond assent. He flushed a little, and began to tap at his corduroyed leg with the stick he carried, at first with a look of shamefaced discomfiture, and then with resolution. He finished with a resounding slap, and looked up with a light in his eyes. ‘I’m pretty hard to beat, ma’am,’ he said, ‘though I say it as should not. I’m not going to be conquered here if I can help it. And I look to have you and Mr. Fellowes on my side, as far as may be asked in reason. Her’ll find no better husband than I should be to her, I _am_ sure. There’s more than a wheedlin’ tongue required to mek a married woman happy. I’ve pretty well proved as I’m not changeable. There’s a strong arm to tek care of her. There’s a homely house with plenty in it. There’s a goodish lump at the bank, and there’s nothing heart can desire as her might not have by asking for it.’ ‘Well, John,’ said the farmer’s wife, clicking her needles cheerfully, ‘I’ve not a word to say again the match. Win the wench and welcome. My dancin’ days is pretty nigh over, but I’ll tek the floor once more with pleasure, if you won’t be too long in mekin’ ready for me.’ ‘There’s nothing more to be done at present, I suppose,’ the lover said presently, ‘and so I’ll say good-bye for this afternoon, Mrs. Fellowes.’ With this he turned upon his heel, and marching sturdily down the path and across the little bridge, disappeared behind the withies and pollards. The farmer’s wife waited a while until he was out of hearing, and then, without turning her head, shrilled out ‘Bertha!’ The girl came silently downstairs and joined her in the doorway. The mother pursued her knitting in silence, a faint flicker of a humorous smile touching her face and eyes now and again. At length she spoke, looking straight before her. ‘Why woot’ent marry the man?’ ‘Mr. Thistlewood?’ asked Bertha, making the feeblest possible defence against this direct attack. ‘Ay,’ said her mother, ‘Mr. Thistlewood to be sure. Why woot’ent marry him?’