“Oh, Aunt, he’s waited so long, he may as well have what he’s waited for.” Fanny laughed grimly. “Yes, child, he’s waited so long, that I’m not sure it isn’t a bit hard on him. You know, I _like_ him, Fanny—though as you know quite well, I don’t think he’s good enough for you. And I think he thinks so himself, poor fellow.” “Don’t you be so sure of that, Aunt. Harry is common, but he’s not humble. He wouldn’t think the Queen was any too good for him, if he’d a mind to her.” “Well—It’s as well if he has a proper opinion of himself.” “It depends what you call proper,” said Fanny. “But he’s got his good points—” “Oh, he’s a nice fellow, and I like him, I do like him. Only, as I tell you, he’s not good enough for you.” “I’ve made up my mind, Aunt,” said Fanny, grimly. “Yes,” mused the aunt. “They say all things come to him who waits—” “More than he’s bargained for, eh, Aunt?” laughed Fanny rather bitterly. The poor aunt, this bitterness grieved her for her niece. They were interrupted by the ping of the shop-bell, and Harry’s call of “Right!” But as he did not come in at once, Fanny, feeling solicitous for him presumably at the moment, rose and went into the shop. She saw a cart outside, and went to the door. And the moment she stood in the doorway, she heard a woman’s common vituperative voice crying from the darkness of the opposite side of the road: “Tha’rt theer, ar ter? I’ll shame thee, Mester. I’ll shame thee, see if I dunna.” Startled, Fanny stared across the darkness, and saw a woman in a black bonnet go under one of the lamps up the side street. Harry and Bill Heather had dragged the trunk off the little dray, and she retreated before them as they came up the shop step with it. “Wheer shalt ha’e it?” asked Harry. “Best take it upstairs,” said Fanny. She went up first to light the gas. When Heather had gone, and Harry was sitting down having tea and pork pie, Fanny asked: “Who was that woman shouting?” “Nay, I canna tell thee. To somebody, I’s’d think,” replied Harry. Fanny looked at him, but asked no more. He was a fair-haired fellow of thirty-two, with a fair moustache. He was broad in his speech, and looked like a foundry-hand, which he was. But women always liked him. There was something of a mother’s lad about him—something warm and playful and really sensitive.