“Why, dear father, you know very well that when Master George Arnot was so unluckily obstinate about the affair of the water-course, and would go to law with you, and swore that instead of marrying William, poor Mary should be married to the rich maltster old Jacob Giles, William, who had loved Mary ever since they were children together, could not bear to stay in the country, and went off to my uncle, forbidding me ever to mention her name in a letter; and,--” “Well! well!” rejoined the father, somewhat softened, “but he need not have turned puppy and coxcomb because he was crossed in love. Pshaw!” added the good farmer, giving a mighty tug with his paddle at a tough mullein which happened to stand in his way, “I was crossed in love myself, in my young days, but I did not run off and turn tailor. I made up plump to another wench--your poor mother, Susan, that’s dead and gone--and carried her off like a man; married her in a month, girl; and that’s what Will should have done. I’m afear’d we shall find him a sad jackanapes. Jem Hathaway, the gauger, told me last market-day that he saw him one Sunday in the what-dye-call’t--the Park there, covered with rings, and gold chains, and fine velvets--all green and gold, like our great peacock. Well! we shall soon see. He comes to-night, you say? ‘Tis not above six o’clock by the sun, and the Wantage coach don’t come in till seven. Even if they lend him a horse and cart at the Nag’s Head, he can’t be here these two hours. So I shall just see the ten acre field cleared, and be home time enough to shake him by the hand if he comes like a man, or to kick him out of doors if he looks like a dandy.” And off strode the stout yeoman in his clouted shoes, his leather gaiters, and smockfrock, and a beard (it was Friday) of six days’ growth; looking altogether prodigiously like a man who would keep his word. Susan, on her part, continued to thread the narrow winding lanes that led towards Wantage; walking leisurely along, and forming as she went, half unconsciously, a nosegay of the wild flowers of the season; the delicate hare-bell, the lingering wood-vetch, the blue scabious, the heaths which clustered on the bank, the tall graceful lilac campanula, the snowy bells of the bindweed, the latest briar-rose, and that species of clematis, which, perhaps, because it generally indicates the neighbourhood of houses, has won for itself the pretty name of the traveller’s joy, whilst that loveliest of wild flowers, whose name is now sentimentalised out of prettiness, the intensely blue forget-me-not, was there in rich profusion.