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Though he was behind me, I could feel Father coming nearer, and I knew somehow that he had taken out his glass again to rub it and put it back, as he does when he is rather surprised or amused. I was afraid he meant to laugh at me afterwards, and he can tease terribly, but I could not have helped saying what came into my head that morning if I had tried. When you have suffered a great deal about anything, you cannot sham, not even politeness.

The Old Squire got rather red. Then he said, “I am afraid I am very hasty, my dear, and say very unjustifiable things. But I am very sorry, and I beg your pardon. Will you forgive me?”

I said, “Of course, if you’re sorry, I forgive you, but you have been a very long time in repenting.”

Which was true. If I had been cross with one of the others, and had borne malice for five months, I should have thought myself very wicked. But when I had said it, I felt sorry, for the old gentleman made no answer. Father did not speak either, and I began to feel very miserable. I touched the flowers, and the Old Squire gave them to me in silence. I thanked him very much, and then I said–

“I am very glad you know about it now…. I’m very glad they lived…. I hope you like them? … I hope, if you do like them, that they’ll grow and spread all over your field.”

The Old Squire spoke at last. He said, “It is not my field any longer.”

I said, “Oh, why?”

“I have given it away; I have been a long time in repenting, but when I did repent I punished myself. I have given it away.”

It overwhelmed me, and when he took up the big paper again, I thought he was going, and I tried to stop him, for I was sorry I had spoken unkindly to him, and I wanted to be friends.

“Please don’t go,” I said. “Please stop and be friends. And oh, please, please don’t give Mary’s Meadow away. You mustn’t punish yourself. There’s nothing to punish yourself for. I forgive you with all my heart, and I’m sorry I spoke crossly. I have been so very miserable, and I was so vexed at wasting the hose-in-hose, because Bessie’s great aunt gave them to me, and I’ve none left. Oh, the unkindest thing you could do to me now would be to give away Mary’s Meadow.”

The Old Squire had taken both my hands in his, and now he asked very kindly–“Why, my dear, why don’t you want me to give away Mary’s Meadow?”

“Because we are so fond of it. And because I was beginning to hope that now we’re friends, and you know we don’t want to steal your things, or to hurt your field, perhaps you would let us play in it sometimes, and perhaps have Saxon to play with us there. We are so very fond of him too.”

“You are fond of Mary’s Meadow?” said the Old Squire.

“Yes, yes! We have been fond of it all our lives. We don’t think there is any field like it, and I don’t believe there can be. Don’t give it away. You’ll never get one with such flowers in it again. And now there are hose-in-hose, and they are not at all common. Bessy’s aunt’s aunt has only got one left, and she’s taking care of it with a shovel. And if you’ll let us in we’ll plant a lot of things, and do no harm, we will indeed. And the nightingale will be here directly. Oh, don’t give it away!”

My head was whirling now with the difficulty of persuading him, and I did not hear what he said across me to my father. But I heard Father’s reply–“Tell her yourself, sir.”

On which the Old Squire stuffed the big paper into my arms, and put his hand on my head and patted it.