“Finish your sentence,” said the happy curate, too happy for the moment to remember how foolish it was. “Mrs. ----? Finish what you were going to say.” “You know well enough,” said Mary, who in the delightful fervour of settling everything had thus been carried away so much farther than she intended. She added after a moment in a lower tone, “You know it is a very funny name.” “I think now it is the sweetest name in the world. Mary Asquith,” he said--“Mrs. Asquith--I prefer it to any in the world.” “Well,” said Mary, considering, “it has this for it, that it is not just like anybody’s name. It has a great deal of character in it. You don’t forget it as soon as you have heard it, like Smith or Brown.” “It is an old name,” he said, with a little pride, “and one very well known in Cumberland, and known only for good, Mary. But,” he added suddenly, after this outburst, “you are not to suppose that I am claiming to belong to a great family. Oh no, we are only yeomen; we are not equal to the Prescotts. We have an old house, which will be my brother’s, but not like Horton--a homely old place, no better than a farmhouse. That is another thing that will be against me,” he said, his voice sinking out of its happiness and pride into subdued tones. “There cannot be anything against you,” said Mary, giving a little pressure to his arm. “Do you think I am such a prize? They will be glad, I shouldn’t wonder, to get me off their hands; my poor aunt will not have to say any more, ‘Mary, if anything happens to your uncle!’ I shall have my own--person,” she said, pausing for a word, and laughing over it, “my own--person to take care of me--and what more does any girl require?”