“Tush, mistress,” retorted old Madam, coolly, “you are a fool, as young women often are. I have no pity for a man who would live dishonestly, if he could; a dirty, lazy lout, who begs and steals. Sit down, my girl, for here is a guest who comes to look at your fair face and hopes that I may die and leave you rich, which I shall not.” Betty looked up and saw Sir Barton Henge. He had just been ushered into the hall, and wore a rich riding-suit and carried his plumed hat in his hand. He advanced with an air of eager pleasure, his bold eyes fixed on Mistress Carew. “I crave your pardon, Lady Crabtree,” he said, with a graceful salutation, “for coming so early, but I knew the morning star shone ever at Wildrick Hall.” “A very pretty compliment to an old woman, Sir Barton,” Lady Crabtree said. “You find us much upset; my young mistress here flies out at me because I will not coddle a valiant beggar.” Betty closed her lips tightly and drew further away; her instinctive dislike for Henge increased every time she saw him, though his passionate admiration for her was plain enough to flatter the vanity of one so young. “Mistress Carew has a tender heart,” said Henge, smiling blandly; “I can see that in her eyes.” At this, old Madam burst out with a harsh laugh. “Mercy on your imagination, sir,” she said in great amusement, “if you can fancy any tenderness in the glance that Mistress Betty casts at you! You are in no favor in that quarter.” Betty blushed furiously, but held her peace. She was not entirely displeased at Lady Crabtree’s frankness, for Sir Barton had pushed his addresses with such violent warmth and haste that she dreaded his visits. “You are gay this morning, madam,” he said sharply, with a glance of ill-disguised anger at the old woman; “happily, you are not the interpreter of Mistress Carew’s heart or eyes.” “You fool,” retorted Lady Crabtree, laughing, “Betty’s eyes need no interpreter--” “Madam,” interrupted the young girl, sharply, “I crave your permission to withdraw;” and without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked from the room, holding her head high and with crimson cheeks. “There, Sir Barton,” laughed the old woman, “see how welcome you are! The wench has sense, I tell you, and will none of you.” “I am not so confident of that as you, my Lady Crabtree,” he retorted angrily; “I can find a way to bring this haughty young mistress to reason.” The old woman looked at him sharply. “You have an air of mystery,” she said coldly, “but look you, Barton Henge, I love this wench, and I swear that you shall not disturb her, nay, or trouble her one whit. Sit down and eat; you are hungry, doubtless; but nourish no dreams of conquest, unless the maid is willing, which she may be in time, for all girls are fools once, else there would be fewer marriages.” CHAPTER XII THE PRECONTRACT