He paused and looked at her. Melinda appeared more than usually attractive. She was in her Sunday gown--a black one, for she still mourned her parent; but she had brightened it with some mauve satin bows, and she wore her best shoes with steel buckles. "There is a ghost in the house, however," declared the gardener. "Never!" "Yes--the ghost of a thought in my mind," he explained. "Ideas do grow." "If they stick, then they grow. Now I'll ax you a question, and you've no call to answer it if you don't want. You might say 'twas a hole in my manners to ax, perhaps." "I'm sure you wouldn't make a hole in your manners, Mr. Ford." "I hope not. 'Tis this, then. What might the late Mr. Withycombe have thought of Farmer Stockman up the hill?" Melinda parried the question. "Well, you never can say exactly what one man thinks of another, because time and chance changes the opinion. A man will vex you to-day and please you next week. Sometimes what he does and says is contrary to your opinions, and then again, he may do or say something that brings him back to you." "He liked him and didn't like him--off and on? But he'd made up his mind in a general way about his character?" "I suppose he had." "I know he had." "How should you know?" "Because I was at the trouble to find out." "Fancy!" "Yes. I sounded a man here and there. I went to Chaffe, the carpenter." "Arthur Chaffe knew father very well and respected him, though he didn't hold with his opinions about religion." "Religion I never touch--too kicklish a subject. But I spoke to Chaffe, and being friendly disposed to me--and why not?--he said a thing I might be allowed to name to you in confidence." "Certainly," said Melinda, "if it's nothing against my father." "Far from it. And I hope you'll take it as 'tis meant." "I always take everything like that." "That's right then. Well, Chaffe, knowing me for a pretty quiet man and a hater of gossip, told me the late fox-hunter saw very clear you'd go to Joe Stockman after he was took----" "How could he?" "Well, I don't know how he could. But he did. And though too tender to whisper it in your ear, he told Chaffe that he was sorry!" "Good Lord, you surprise me!" "No business of mine, you'll say. And yet I felt somehow that if your father--such a man as him--felt sorry, there was a reason why for he should. And I won't deny but I told Chaffe he ought to mention it to you. He wouldn't, because he said the thing was too far gone." "What's gone too far?" "You know best. But people have ears and Stockman's got a tongue." Mrs. Honeysett showed annoyance, while Harry returned to his potatoes. "You're telling me what I know, however," she said. He purposely misunderstood. "You knew your good father didn't care for Mr. Stockman at bottom?" "I know he's talking." "The only thing that matters to know is your own mind, not what's in other people's, or in his."