Miss Heptonstall, he remarked, had everything "gradely" about her. The table-cloth was not only snow-white and beautifully mended, but of fine quality; the spoons were silver, worn to egg-shell thinness, but resplendently bright; the teapot, a heavy, old-fashioned Britannia metal one, was polished till it might have been of the same precious ore; the cups and plates were of delicate transparent china. Margaret came of good old north-country stock, and these possessions were heirlooms. Ted looked at her, and a queer feeling suddenly came over him. Supposing--only _supposing_--that instead of a jest his wooing had been undertaken in sober earnest, he would be doing rather well for himself than otherwise. Now that he was at leisure to survey Miss Heptonstall with an impartial eye, it appeared to him that she really was not ill-looking, and he didn't believe she could be more than nine or ten years older than he was. She certainly was a notable sort of body; she kept her place wonderful nice, and she had a tidy bit of brass laid by in the bank. There was a very comfortable ring about this last item. It was odd that from the time these reflections took possession of him Ted became pensive and serious. The conversation flagged, and by-and-by he rose to take his leave. Margaret accompanied him to the door. "Ye'll be lookin' in again, I fancy, afore th' weekend?" she remarked casually. Ted cleared his throat and replied that very like he would. He walked rather slowly till he reached the corner of the lane, and there he paused, slapping his thigh as he suddenly remembered something. "I haven't said a word about the shoutin'!" he cried in a vexed tone. He retraced his steps more quickly, and presently re-entered Margaret's cottage. "Miss Heptonstall," he began, screwing his head insinuatingly round the doorpost. "Well?" returned Margaret. She was standing with her back to him, gazing meditatively into the fire. "I were thinkin'," continued Wharton, "you an' me, ye know--theer isn't much use in waitin', is theer?" Margaret turned and looked at him, but did not speak. "We met as well let Canon begin o' shoutin' us, dunnot ye think?" Margaret reflected. "It 'ud be a pity for ye to gi' up your house afore th' end o' th' year," she remarked. "Th' agent wouldn't let ye, would he? Ye'll ha' to gi' six months' notice, wunnot ye? Theer's time enough as how 'tis." Ted bethought him of the cask of beer, and his face fell. If he was to win his wager the banns must be published before the end of the month, and but ten days of it remained to run.