All this was beyond the belief or comprehension of Squire Fuller, and Natty might have answered his dubious look by the words of the Samaritan woman, “Thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep.” “Well, well,” said he, “I am heartily glad, at any rate, that you can take life so brightly. It certainly would be a thousand pities if that grand voice of yours was to rust for want of practice.” “Yes, there’s something in that, too,” said Nathan, with a smile. ‘To help the voice full clear to ring. Go out into the woods and sing.’ “I don’t go out into the woods to do it, but the pitch of my anvil-ring keeps me up to tone, and the practice is quite as good.” “Allow me to thank you, Blyth, for that very courteous and satisfactory note you sent me yesterday. I own that it was not altogether what I expected. I suspected--I imagined--I thought--that--that”----and the squire felt that he was dealing stupidly with a very delicate subject. “Yes, I know,” said Nathan Blyth; “you imagined that the blacksmith and his daughter were fishing for the heir of Waverdale Park, and you hoped quietly to convince them that it was a losing game. I’m not offended at that; I suppose it was natural that you should do so. But be sure, sir, that I dread the idea, and hate it, too, quite as much as you do. Don’t misunderstand me. I believe in my conscience that my Lucy is in all respects a prize that any man might wish to win, and I know none for whom I do not hold her to be too good. But I’d rather she mated with somebody in her own rank of life. I should say ‘No’ to Master Philip if he asked for her himself, and I should say ‘No’ to you if you were to ask for him; and if he is a sensible young man, he’ll turn his attention other where, for he may depend upon it he’ll come on a useless errand, if he comes at all.” Human nature is a queer article, and the squire’s feelings as he heard this would have been difficult to analyse. His satisfaction was great at the thought that there was no fear of counter-plotting, but, strange to say, he felt more than half inclined to feel insulted. Here was a grimy smith, with naked arms and leather apron, standing, hammer in hand, by his smithy fire, coldly intimating that his daughter was too dainty a prize for his own son, and scorning the bare idea of such an alliance with as much independence as if he were a “belted earl.” The blue blood surged a little in the veins of the stately squire, but, restraining himself, he was fain to be content with facts, and, mounting his horse, he bade the sturdy Vulcan a cold and distant “Good-morrow,” and betook him to his ancestral park. CHAPTER XIV. AUD ADAM OLLIVER “SEES ABOUT IT.”