“There, that’ll do,” interrupted Barnes, leaning forward with one great hand on either knee, “Thou’rt but young, as I say, and I mustn’t expect too much fro’ thee. Do what ye will ye can’t be like poor mother; nay, ’tisn’t to be looked for; nay, it ’ud want sombry else as is older and wiser nor thee, lass, to take mother’s place. Ah, I’ve been thinkin’ o’ that”—here he paused, slowly polishing the knees of his corduroys with his broad palms,—“I’m wishful for to do my dooty by your poor mother, my dear,” he resumed presently, looking very hard at Maimie. “Ah, I couldn’t noways rest easy in my mind, if I didn’t strive to do that, and so, as I tell ye, I’m thinkin’ o’ summat.” “What are ye thinkin’ on, feyther?” cried the girl quickly. Mr Barnes restored his pipe to his mouth, sucked at it, and then, blowing out a cloud of smoke, looked at his daughter with moist eyes from amid the blue mist. “’Twill go hard wi’ me,” he said slowly; “it will indeed, but the question isn’t what I’d choose, but what she’d choose.” “Who?” cried Maimie, quite at sea. “Why, the poor missus, your mother. It’ll go agen me, as I say, but I’ve made up my mind for to do it.” “For pity’s sake, feyther, speak plain. To do what?” “Why, to take a second, my dear,” said the farmer, speaking somewhat indistinctly by reason of the pipe which was still firmly wedged in the corner of his mouth, but with the same solemn dignity. “To get wed—to pick soombry out as ’ud do for me the way your dear mother done for me—one as ’ud keep things straight, same as they used to be, and have an eye to all of you young folks.” “Nay, but, feyther, mother ’ud never ha’ liked that,” protested Maimie. “’Tis the very last thing she’d wish, to have a stranger put in her place, and a stepmother cocked up over her childer.” “Cocked up,” repeated the farmer sternly, “the one as I have in my mind isn’t like to be easy cocked up. A sensible, steady, hard-workin’ woman—a widder too, so ye may think she’ll have a feelin’ heart for me. And one as have childer of her own, a plenty of ’em, and ’ull know how to dale wi’ all on you.” “Who is it, feyther?” gasped the girl. “Why, Mrs Wharton o’ the Pit.” “Mrs Wharton!” ejaculated Maimie. She checked the tears which were ready to fall, and sat looking at her father in amazement, the colour sweeping over her pretty face. “Why, she’ve got six childer of her own, and pretty nigh all of ’em lads.” Her father nodded sideways with a contented air. “They’ll come in handy about the place I dare-say,” he remarked. “And she only buried Mr Wharton six month ago!” “Ah! I reckon she’ll feel the want of him—very nigh as bad as I feel the want o’ your mother.” “But she’d never think o’ gettin’ wed again—she’s fifty-five and more.” Barnes removed his pipe, pointing with the stem at Maimie to enforce the comparison:—