'Single, I suppose?' he asked. 'Ah,' said Martha coyly, 'I'm single; but I've no objection to matrimony.' 'Oh!' Vessons spoke sourly, 'I'm sorry for you, then.' 'Maybe you're a married man yourself?' 'Never.' 'Better late than never!' 'If I've kep' out of it in the heat of youth, is it likely I'll go into it in the chilly times? Maiden I am to my dying day!' 'But if you was to meet a nice tidy woman as had a bit saved?' To Martha, a bridegroom of sixty-five seemed better than nothing. 'If I met a score nice tidy women, if I met a gross nice tidy women, it 'ud be no different.' 'Not if she could make strong ale?' 'I can make ale myself. No woman shall come into my kitchen for uncounted gold.' Martha sighed as she changed the subject. 'What do you want the master for?' 'Never tell your tidings,' said Vessons, 'till you meet the king.' 'Martha!' Mrs. Marston stood at the kitchen door in the most splendid of her caps--a pagoda of white lace--and her voice was, as she afterwards said, 'quite sharp,' its mellifluousness being very slightly reduced. Vessons rose, touching his hair. 'What is it, my good man?' 'A bit of news, mum.' 'For my son?' 'Ah!' 'You may go, Martha,' said Mrs. Marston, and Martha went without alacrity. 'Now.' Mrs. Marston spoke encouragingly. 'It's for the master.' 'He cannot see you.' The two old faces regarded each other with silent obstinacy, and Vessons recognized that, for all Mrs. Marston's soft outlines, she was as obstinate as he was. He cleared his throat several times. Mrs. Marston produced a lozenge, which he ate reluctantly, chumbling it with nervous haste. He was so afraid that she would give him another that he told her his news. 'Thank you,' she said, keeping her dignity in a marvellous manner. 'Mrs. Edward Marston, of course, wrote to the minister, but she forgot to give her address.' 'Accidents will 'appen,' Vessons remarked, as he went out. It was some time before Edward came in. He had spent most of his time since last Sunday tramping the hillsides. It was not till he had finished his very cursory meal that his mother said calmly, looking over her spectacles: 'I know where Hazel is.' 'You _know_, mother? Why didn't you tell me?' 'I am telling you, dear. There's nothing to be in a taking about. You've had no supper yet. A little preserve?' Edward, in a sudden passion that startled her, threw the jam-dish across the room. It made a red splash on the wall. Mrs. Marston stopped chumbling her toast, and remained with the rotary motions of her mouth in abeyance. Then she said slowly: 'Your poor father always said, dear, that you'd break out some day. And you have. The best dish! Of course the jam I say little about; jam is but jam, after all; but the cut-glass dish--!' 'Can't you go on with the tale, mother?'