“Nay, lad, me an’ your mother is not for turnin’ ye out, but if you an’ our Maimie have settled everything between yourselves we haven’t nothin’ to say, have we Lizzie? ’Tis a very good thing for young folks to earn their own livin’—a very good thing.” Luke and Maimie looked at each other blankly. The bomb which they had expected to discharge with such deadly effect had unaccountably fizzled off; nobody seemed a penny the worse for it. On the contrary, this plan, which they had expected to be so strenuously opposed, appeared to suit the older couple to a nicety. “Well,” said Luke, drawing a long breath, “what I says I’ll stick to. If you’ll keep your word to me, Maimie, I’ll keep mine to you. ’Tis a bit hard to turn out of the old place after bein’ brought up to look for somethin’ so different, an’ I doubt you’ll find it a bit hard too, my lass, to settle down in a little small cottage—I doubt if your mother were alive—or my poor feyther, as thought such a dale o’ me—” He broke off, choking; there were tears in his blue eyes. Mrs Wharton could stand it no longer; rising hurriedly from her chair, she pushed the farmer on one side, and, squeezing herself round the table, threw her arms round Luke’s neck. “Nay, my lad,” she cried, “nay, dunnot believe it. Dunnot think as your mother could ever be that ’ard. Ye shannot be treated no worse nor if your feyther wer alive—maybe a bit better, for our gaffer were wonderful masterful, and I doubt he’d not be the one to turn out to make room for thee the same as I’m thinkin’ o’ doin’.” Luke, who had been warmly returning his mother’s embrace, now jerked up a somewhat ruffled head, his flushed face disclosing distinct traces of tears. “What’s that ye say, mother?” he asked. Meanwhile Jim had been shaking his head waggishly at Maimie, and uplifting an admonitory forefinger. “Well, of all the little noddies! So I’m goin’ to turn thee out, am I, to shift for thysel’. Water’s thicker nor blood, I s’pose, ho, ho, ho!” He laughed prodigiously at his own wit, and Maimie dashed away her tears and smiled a doubtful smile. “Mester Barnes and me,” said Mrs Wharton solemnly, “have made up we’re minds for to get wed, him bein’ in want of a missus an’ me bein’ that awful lonesome wi’out your poor feyther, Luke, as I feel I mun put soombry in’s place.” “Very well said,” interpolated the farmer, in a deep and admiring growl. “At same time,” continued Mrs Wharton, “we both knows our dooty to our childer, an’ we think the best way o’ settlin’ the matter ’ud be for me to live here at arter we are wed, and for you, Luke, to stop on at the Pit wi’ Maimie for your missus. Mester Barnes an’ me,” she added, looking towards her newly-chosen partner for confirmation of her words, “’ull give an eye to things from time to time—me inside an’ him out. An’ ye’ll have to pay me rent for the place, ye know, Luke—” “Allowin’ yoursel’ a fair profit, o’ course,” interposed Farmer Barnes, “a fair profit.”