“That wouldn’t suit me,” he said, “nay, that it wouldn’t. Our family have been settled here for a hundred year an’ more; I bain’t a-goin’ to shift.” Again Mrs Wharton considered. She was not disposed to relinquish her rights without a struggle, but, on the other hand, Jim Barnes was the most eligible suitor who was likely to come her way. The widowed state of both seemed to make the alliance peculiarly desirable; none of the neighbours could cast up at her for replacing poor Joe so soon when her second husband stood as much in need of consolation as herself. Then he was well-to-do, and a most excellent father. She had thought, moreover, that his support would have enabled her to get the better of the recalcitrant Luke. But there were limits which could not be outstepped. To expect a youth of twenty-two to accept a subordinate position on strange premises was too much. “The Pit Farm is a very fine farm,” she remarked tentatively, after a pause. “The Whartons have lived there a good few year too. ’Tis but nat’ral as our Luke should look to steppin’ into his feyther’s shoes some day when I’m laid under ground. ’Tis what he’ve a right to expect.” “Well, let the lad step into ’em now, then,” exclaimed Jim Barnes jovially. “Let him step away. I don’t want to be gaffer at the Pit Farm; all as I want, my dear, is for you to come an’ be missus here.” Mrs Wharton relaxed. When her wooer smiled so pleasantly and called her “my dear,” it was difficult to maintain an attitude of aloofness; nevertheless, though her heart was insensibly softening, her shrewd, stolid North-country head by no means followed suit. “There’s a deal to be thought on, isn’t there?” she remarked. “Our Luke—if I was to let our Luke set up for hissel’ at our place, there’d be no doin’ anythin’ wi’ him. An’ the lad’s ower young too to be livin’ alone there—” “Why need he live alone?” interrupted Jim. “Pick out a wife for him—that’s what ye’d best do—pick out a wife for him an’ let the yoong folks set up there, and you coom here along o’ me.” Mrs Wharton smiled dubiously. “It met be a good thing in one way,” she conceded, “but still—well, ye see, I didn’t reckon to give up the Pit Farm to our Luke for a good few year yet. There’s all the little uns to bring up and eddicate. I couldn’t expect to be lookin’ to you for everything.” “That’s true,” said Jim, becoming suddenly very solemn. He, too, had heard about the good bit of brass that was laid by, and, as every sensible person knew, when brass was laid by, it was laid by, until the time came for the fortunate possessor to leave it by will to somebody else. Still he had not reckoned on the possible contingency of having to feed and clothe at his expense the five younger Whartons. After deep meditation, he struck the table with his fist.