‘Why, ye’re not eatin’ much, Tim,’ said Mr Robson across the table; ‘have some of the cheese, it’s rare and good, I can tell ye. Ye’ve not brought much appetite back wi’ ye to the Farm; have ye left it all wi’ t’ lasses of the town?’ Mr Robson considered a mild jest of this sort to be a concession to the weakness of the young, and therefore not to be included under the head of ‘idle talk.’ His wife, however, took up the subject more seriously; she had perhaps her own reasons for pursuing it. ‘I should be right down glad, Tim, to hear ye’d a lass,’ she said; ‘it ’ud help to settle ye an’ keep ye straight in life. For why don’t ye think a bit about a sweetheart? there’s pretty lasses where’er ye choose to go.’ ‘Ah, there’s one pretty lass here,’ observed Mr Robson, solemnly, ‘as won’t be so quick in counting sweethearts now--it’s a poor thing when a young ’oman makes hersel’ into a talk, so as all t’ lads may have idle words on her. There won’t be a steady one now as’ll own her for a wife--an’ yet she’s well-lookin’ eno’--a poor tale that!’ ‘I never did think her not so very pretty--’ Mrs Robson could not restrain herself any longer--‘not no prettier nor many as doesn’t think such a deal of ’emselves. But howso that be, it makes no differ now, no honest lad’ll marry her, as my husband says.’ She would have added more, but she found herself restrained by the sight of the excitement that was too visible in Tim, and which gave to his face such a flushed and bright-eyed look as had never been known to appear on it before. He tried to eat, and then he tried to drink; he got up from his chair, and then sat down again, and then rose once more, and stood before the mall. It was evident that he was struggling with conflicting feelings; but one rose above the rest--and then he spoke. ‘If it’s Annie Salter as ye be speakin’ on,’ he said, ‘ye be not so quite so right, Mrs Robson, as ye think. I’d marry her to-morrow if she’d give me t’ chance, an’ yet I reckon mysel’ an honest man. I won’t believe none of all these tales an’ words--not until I hear ’em from her own lips. God bless her! t’ prettiest lass in all t’ village, an’ t’ best; I won’t be the lad to be cryin’ shame on her!’ There followed--silence. The air seemed to vibrate, as if some particles of excitement were lingering in it still. The pleasant kitchen, which had such cheerful meals, had not been witness to such a scene as this before.