“Why not make the chap pay ye rent for it?” he said. “That ’ud be the thing. Set him up there an’ pick him out a missus, an’ let the two of ’em manage for themselves, and pay ye a lump sum every rent-day—a good sum, mind ye, so as Mester Luke mayn’t be kickin’ up his heels an’ thinkin’ too much of hissel’. Coom,” he cried, “what d’ye think o’ that notion?” “I think well on’t,” said Mrs Wharton, pursing up her lips, and nodding with a satisfied air. “I think ’tis a capital notion, Mester Barnes. I must just turn ower in my mind a bit, the lasses I’d like our Luke to choose from. There’s Sally Lupton now; she’s a nice little body, an’ folks say owd Lupton left a good bit to her mother.” “Ah,” said the farmer, “she met do very well.” “An’ there’s Rose Blanchard,” continued Mrs Wharton, ruminating, “she’s a nice lass; wonderful house-proud Rose is.” “Ah!” agreed Barnes, nodding. Mrs Wharton was struck by something peculiar in his tone, and looked at him sharply; a deeper shade of colour was slowly overspreading his face, and he was smiling in an oddly bashful way. “Can ye call to mind no other lass?” he said, after a pause, and, edging his chair round the table, he nudged the widow meaningly. A light suddenly dawned on Mrs Wharton; she began to laugh with a rather conscious look. “Well, theer’s one lass as ’ud suit very well. In more ways nor one she’d suit, I reckon; but I’m sure I don’t know whatever you’d say to it, Mester Barnes.” “Give her a name,” said Jim, grinning more broadly. “Well—I hardly like—’t ’ud coom best fro’ you, Mester Barnes; but she’s a very nice lass, an’ I’ve heard as her mother left a nice bit o’ money behind her.” “Meanin’ my missus,” shouted Jim, the smiles forsaking his face immediately. “Oh, I named no names, Mester Barnes, though I did hear that poor Martha had a nice bit put away in the bank.” “Maybe she had, an’ maybe she hadn’t,” said Jim. “As how ’tis, whatever was left was left to me, an’ it’s me as’ll have the settlin’ on’t.” “Of course, of course—I’m only sayin’—blood’s thicker nor water, when all’s said an’ done, isn’t it?” “’Tis indeed, an’ I’m sure that’s a sayin’ as you’ll bear in mind, my dear, when you’re setting your Luke up. He’s his feyther’s son, ye know, an’ what did his feyther lay by so mich brass for, if not for the lad as is to stand in his shoes?” There was a twinkle in honest Jim’s eyes as he made this home-thrust, and when Mrs Wharton replied, it was with a sort of giggle. “Ah, to be sure, he’s to stand in’s feyther’s shoes, poor lad, but I doubt he’ll find ’em a tight fit if I take your advice, Mester Barnes, an’ make him pay me a big lump o’ rent.” The farmer laughed outright.