“No,” continued Mary, drying her eyes, “there’s some sorrows I could face, if it was the will of God, but the sorrow of living my life without Lydia’s wisdom and help, and the light of her countenance—I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t be responsible. I know all she is in this house, and though you in your manly way—which is to be annoyed when you get a surprise you don’t like—though you, Tom, may foolishly think Priory Farm could go on without Lydia, that only shows the gulf there’s fixed between the male and female mind. I know Lydia’s the lynch pin to our cart, and so do my girls, down to that innocent infant in the cradle, if she could talk; and so do Lydia herself, for though modest as a violet, she’s far too witty to misunderstand a thing like that. And if I thought any evil influence was upon Lydia to make her restless, I’d go on my knees to God to touch her heart and keep it in the old pattern; and I’d stop on ’em till He had.” Here Mary wept again and Tom, impressed by so much emotion, moderated his warmth. “If I said anything over and above, I’m sorry,” he declared. “But when I get a shock, it nearly always loosens my tongue; and to think that evil disposed persons have been poisoning Lydia’s mind against her own is a bit beyond reason and justice.” “If we’re falling short in our duty and undervaluing you, Lydia, you must tell us,” added Mary, “for we’re not the sort to fail in gratitude I should hope. We may not voice our thanks; but God knows if they’re in our prayers or not.” Then Lydia spoke. “It’s nothing like that. It’s only a natural difference of opinion. There’s a man wants to marry me, and he can’t be blamed, looking at me from his romantical point of view, for thinking he’d like to see me in my own home.” Heavy silence followed, and only a cricket behind the oven broke it. Mrs. Dolbear’s heart sank. She was prepared to go to any possible extremes of conduct rather than lose Lydia. Without Mrs. Trivett, her own life must inevitably become a far more complicated and strenuous matter than she desired. “It’s not for us to advise you,” she said, “but I hope the Almighty will help you out of temptation, Lydia, for anything more dreadful and unbecoming than that couldn’t happen to you.” “I dare say you’re right, Mary.” “I don’t tell you this for selfishness, nor yet because you’d leave a house of mourners and break a lot of young, innocent hearts, if you was to go. I tell you this, because I do believe your high nature wouldn’t brook another man, or return into the wedded state with comfort after all these widowed years of freedom. I can’t see you happy so; and I can’t see any nice man wishing to take you out of this house.” Lydia rose to retire. “As to that, Polly, it’s all the point of view. Nobody can fairly quarrel with the man. He’s all right.” “I’m sure I hope you don’t think of it all the same, after hearing my wife, Lydia,” murmured Tom, now subdued.