The old man did not speak for awhile. He seemed to be at a loss, and Clement, who had other and more serious business on his mind, and had his own reasons for feeling ill at ease, waited anxiously. He was desperately afraid of making a false step. Suddenly, “Who was your grandfather?” the Squire asked. Clement started and colored. “He had the same name as my father,” he said. “He was a clothier in Aldersbury.” “Ay, I mind him. I mind him now. And his father, young man?” “His name was Clement,” and foreseeing the next question, “he was a yeoman at Easthope.” “And his father?” Clement reddened painfully. He saw only too well to what these questions were tending. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “And you set up—you set up,” said the Squire, leaning forward and speaking very slowly, “to marry my heiress?” “No, sir, your daughter!” Clement said, his face burning. “If she’d not a penny——” “Pho! Don’t tell me!” the old man growled, and to Clement’s surprise—whose ears were tingling—he relapsed into silence again. It was a silence very ominous. It seemed to Clement that no silence had ever been so oppressive, that no clock had ever ticked so loudly as the tall clock that stood between the windows behind him. “You know,” said the old man at last, “you’re a d—d impudent fellow. You’ve no birth, you’re nobody, and I don’t know that you’ve much money. You’ve gone behind my back and you’ve stole my girl. You’ve stole her! My father’d ha’ shot you, and good reason, before he’d ha’ let it come to this. But it’s part my fault,” with a sigh. “She’ve seen naught of the world and don’t know the difference between silk and homespun or what’s fitting for her. You’re nobody, and you’ve naught to offer—I’m plain, young gentleman, and it’s better—but I believe you’re a man, and I believe you’re honest.” “And I love her!” Clement said softly, his eyes shining. “Ay,” drily, “and maybe it would be better for her if her father didn’t! But there it is. There it is. That’s all that’s to be said for you.” He sat silent, looking straight before him with his sightless eyes, his hands on the knob of his stick. “And I dunno as I make much of that—’tis easy for a man to love a maid—but the misfortune is that she thinks she loves you. Well, I’m burying things as have been much to me all my life, things I never thought to lose or part from while I lived. I’m burying them deep, and God knows I may regret it sorely. But you may go to her. She’s somewhere about the place. But”—arresting Clement’s exclamation as he rose to his feet—“you’ll ha’ to wait. You’ll ha’ to wait till I say the word, and maybe ’tis all moonshine, and she’ll see it is. Maybe ’tis all a girl’s whimsy, and when she knows more of you she’ll find it out.” “God bless you, sir!” Clement cried. “I’ll wait. I’m not afraid. I’ve no fear of that. And if I can make myself worthy of her——”