"No, he didn't. They was tokened when he was forty, and kept company for five years." "That ban't loving," she said. "Of course it ban't! And yet father isn't what you might call a hard man. Far from it, to all but me. A big-hearted, kindly creature and a good father, if he could only understand more. Like a boy in some things. I'm sure I feel a lot older than him sometimes. If 'twas Ned now, he'd be friendly and easy as you please." "What does Mrs. Baskerville say?" "She's on our side, and so's my sisters. Polly and May think the world of you. 'Tisn't as if I was like my brother Ned--a lazy chap that hates the sight of work. I stand to work same as father himself, and he knows that; and when there's anything calling to be done, 'tis always, 'Where be Rupert to?" But lazy as Ned is, he'd let him marry to-morrow." "Mr. Baskerville's frighted of losing you from Cadworthy, Rupert." The young man looked out where a wood rose south of the bridge, and his father's farm lifted its black chimneys above the trees. "He tells me I'm his right hand; and yet refuses, though this is the first thing that ever I've asked him," he said. "Wouldn't he suffer it if you promised him to do as he done, and not marry for five years?" "I'll promise no such thing. Father seems to think 'tis all moonshine, but I shall have another go at him when he comes home next week. Till then I shan't see you no more, for I've promised myself to get through a mighty pile of work--just to astonish him." "The harder you work, the more he'll want you to bide at home," she said. "Not that I mind you working. All the best sort work--I know that." "I must work--no credit to me. I'm like father there. I ban't comfortable if I don't get through a good lump of work in the day." She looked at him with large admiration. "Where's Mr. Baskerville gone to?" "To Bideford for the wrestlin' matches. He always stands stickler when there's a big wrestlin'. Such a famous man he was at it--champion of Devon for nine years. He retired after he was married. But now, just on his seventieth birthday, he's as clever as any of 'em. 'Twas his great trouble, I do believe, that neither me nor Ned ever shaped well at it. But we haven't got his weight. We take after my mother's people and be light built men--compared to father." "Pity May weren't a boy," said Milly. "She's got weight enough." "Yes," he admitted. "She's the very daps of father. She'll be a whacker when she grows up. 'Tis a nuisance for a woman being made so terrible beamy. But there 'tis--and a happier creature never had to walk slow up a hill." Silence fell for a while between them. "We must wait and hope," she declared at last. "I shan't change, Rupert--you know that." "Right well I know it, and more shan't I." "You're just turned twenty-three and I'm eighteen. After all, we've got plenty of time," said Milly.