“Tha showed sense i’ doin’ that,” remarked Mrs. Hutchinson. “She’d not ha’ thowt well o’ thee if tha’d coom runnin’ to her grandmother every day or so. What she likes about thee is as she thinks tha’s got a strong backbone o’ thy own. “Happen a look at a lass’s grandmother--when tha canna get at th’ lass hersen--is a bit o’ comfort,” she added. “But don’t tha go walkin’ by here to look in at th’ window too often. She would na think well o’ that either.” “Say! There’s one thing I’m going to get off my chest before I go,” he announced, “just one thing. She can go where she likes and do what she likes, but I’m going to marry her when she’s done it--unless something knocks me on the head and finishes me. I’m going to marry her.” “Tha art, art tha?” laconically. “I’m keeping up my end here, and it’s no slouch of a job, but I’m not forgetting what she promised for one minute! And I’m not forgetting what her promise means,” he said, obstinately. “Tha’d like me to tell her that?” she said. “If she doesn’t know it, you telling her wouldn’t cut any ice,” was his reply. “I’m saying it because I want you to know it, and because it does me good to say it out loud. I’m going to marry her.” “That’s for her and thee to settle,” she commented impersonally. “It _is_ settled,” he answered. “There’s no way out of it. Will you shake hands with me again before I go?” “Aye,” she consented, “I will.” When she took his hand she held it a minute. Her own was warm, and there was no limpness about it. The secret which had seemed to conceal itself behind her eyes had some difficulty in keeping itself wholly in the background. “She knows aw’ tha does,” she said coolly, as if she were not suddenly revealing immensities. “She knows who cooms an’ who goes, an’ what they think o’ thee, an’ how tha gets on wi’ ’em. Now get thee gone, lad, an’ dunnot tha coom back till her or me sends for thee.” * * * * * ~Within~ an hour of this time the afternoon post brought to Lady Mallowe a letter which she read with an expression in which her daughter recognized relief. It was in fact a letter for which she had waited with anxiety, and the invitation it contained was a tribute to her social skill at its highest water-mark. In her less heroic moments, she had felt doubts of receiving it, which had caused shudders to run the entire length of her spine. “I’m going to Broome Haughton,” she announced to Joan. “When?” Joan inquired. “At the end of the week. I am invited for a fortnight.” “Am I going?” Joan asked. “No. You will go to London to meet some friends who are coming over from Paris.”