‘I like him well enough in a way,’ the girl answered ‘But I don’t like him that way! ‘What way?’ ‘Why--in a marrying way,’ said Bertha. ‘Pooh!’ answered the notable woman. ‘What’s a maid know how she’d like a man?’ ‘I should have the greatest respect for him,’ Bertha answered, wisely avoiding the discussion of this question, ‘if he wouldn’t come bothering me to marry him.’ ‘Ay! ‘said her mother, assenting with a philosophic air. ‘That’s a wench’s way. When a man wants nothing her’ll give him as much as her can spare. But look hither, my gell! You listen to the words of a old experienced woman. There’s a better love comes after the weddin’, if a gell marries a worthy solid man, than ever her knows before it. If a gell averts from a man that’s another matter. But if her can abide him to begin with, and if he’s a good man, her’ll be fond of him before her knows it.’ ‘I should never be fond of Mr. Thistlewood, mother,’ the girl answered, flushing hotly. ‘It’s of no use to speak about him.’ ‘Did the man ever mek love to you at all,’ the mother asked, ‘beyond comin’ here and barkin’, “Wool’t marry me?”’ ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk of him, mother,’ Bertha answered in a troubled voice. ‘I respect him very highly, but as for marrying him, it’s out of the question. I can’t do it.’ ‘Well, well,’ returned her mother, ‘nobody’s askin’ you to do anything o’ the sort. I’m trying to find your mind about him. It’s high time ‘twas made up one way or other. You’ve come to a marriageable age.’ ‘I’m very well as I am,’ said Bertha, rather hastily. ‘I’m not in a hurry to be married.’ ‘You’ve never been much like other gells,’ said her mother, with a dry humorous twinkle which looked more masculine than feminine. ‘But I reckon you’ll be in about as much of a hurry as the rest on ‘em be when the right man comes.’ At this moment a whistle of peculiar volume, mellowness, and flexibility was heard. The whistler was trilling ‘Come lasses and lads’ in tones as delightful as a blackbird’s. ‘Is this him?’ said the old woman, turning upon her daughter. Bertha blushed, and turned away. The mother laughed. A light footstep sounded on the echoing boards of the little bridge, and the human blackbird, marching gaily in time to his tune, flourished a walking-stick in salutation as he approached. ‘Good-afternoon, Mrs. Fellowes,’ cried the newcomer. ‘Good-afternoon, _Miss_ Fellowes.’