“Your mother,” he said brokenly, “your mother, my dear, was fifty-four and a bit—’tis a nice age. The more I think on’t, the more I do seem to tak’ to the notion. Now, I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Maimie—jest pop round to-morrow and ax Mrs Wharton to come and eat her Sunday dinner wi’ us—her and all her fam’ly. Sunday is a good day for doin’ a bit o’ coortin’—her and me ’ull mak’ it up while you youngsters are making merry.” “Nay, but, feyther—” “Nay, but, I’ll not ha’ no buts,” shouted her father, good-humouredly but firmly. “Do what I tell thee, my lass. My mind’s made up, so thou met as well put the best face thou can on’t.” When feyther hammered on the table after that imperative fashion, and threw so much determination into his one-sided nod, Maimie knew from experience that it was useless to argue, and, with a heavy heart, promised to obey. Sunday came and proved to be all that Sunday ought to be: sunshiny and bright. After church the Whartons and Barnes’ came trooping down the flagged path together: Jim brave in the flowered waistcoat which had been laid aside since the death of his missus, and the Widow Wharton displaying a white flower in her bonnet, and discarding her crape “weeper.” As they proceeded in single file, both being too portly in figure to walk side by side, the neighbours smiled and winked, and nudged each other, and remarked that it was a match for sure. The children of both families, stiff and prim in their best clothes, eyed each other somewhat shyly, but presently fraternised; though Luke, the eldest Wharton lad, a fine, well-grown young fellow already in the twenties, walked apart, silently, and with a gloomy face. Maimie had stayed at home, busy over hospitable preparations, and now, with a flushed face and a heavy heart, stood awaiting her visitors. She revived a little presently, when Mrs Wharton praised her cooking, and remarked that she could not have made the pudden better herself; but her countenance soon clouded over again. During the meal feyther paid marked attention to the lady of his choice, filling up her glass until she was obliged to protect it by keeping one broad hand outspread on the top, piling her plate with beef, and leering in an amorous fashion whenever he caught her eye; and, at its conclusion, he requested Mrs Wharton to withdraw with him to the parlour, and jocularly told the young folk they might clear away and cut what capers they liked. “I’ll go out for a smoke, I think,” said Luke; but he spoke somewhat hesitatingly, and looked questioningly at Maimie. “Without,” he added gallantly, “I can be of any service to you, Miss Barnes.” “Do just what you please,” she returned shortly. “I don’t suppose you feel more like making merry nor I do mysel’. The childer can play if they’ve a mind to; but it ’ull take me all my time to clear away—and I’ve no great fancy for making merry as how ’tis.”