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“Papa,” she said, when Gribbles’ long-drawn last word had been spoken at the door. “Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would say if I were to leave you?”

“Yes, surely,” he replied, looking up at her in astonishment.

“I am going to leave you now,” she said. “Dear, dearest father, how am I to go from you?”

“Going to leave me,” said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and thinking of nothing else.

Now, there had been a story about Helpholme. That bedridden old lady there had a stalwart son, who was now the owner of the Helpholme pastures. But though owner in fee of all those wild acres, and of the cattle which they supported, he was not much above the farmers around him, either in manners or education. He had his merits, however; for he was honest, well-to-do in the world, and modest withal. How strong love had grown up, springing from neighbourly kindness, between our Patience and his mother, it needs not here to tell; but rising from it had come another love–or an ambition which might have grown to love. The young man, after much thought, had not dared to speak to Miss Woolsworthy, but he had sent a message by Miss Le Smyrger. If there could be any hope for him, he would present himself as a suitor–on trial. He did not owe a shilling in the world, and had money by him– saved. He wouldn’t ask the parson for a shilling of fortune. Such had been the tenor of his message, and Miss Le Smyrger had delivered it faithfully. “He does not mean it,” Patience had said with her stern voice. “Indeed he does, my dear. You may be sure he is in earnest,” Miss Le Smyrger had replied; “and there is not an honester man in these parts.”

“Tell him,” said Patience, not attending to the latter portion of her friend’s last speech, “that it cannot be–make him understand, you know–and tell him also that the matter shall be thought of no more.” The matter had, at any rate, been spoken of no more, but the young farmer still remained a bachelor, and Helpholme still wanted a mistress. But all this came back upon the parson’s mind when his daughter told him that she was about to leave him.

“Yes, dearest,” she said; and as she spoke she now knelt at his knees. “I have been asked in marriage, and I have given myself away.”

“Well, my love, if you will be happy–“

“I hope I shall; I think I shall. But you, papa?”

“You will not be far from us.”

“Oh, yes; in London.”

“In London?”

“Captain Broughton lives in London generally.”

“And has Captain Broughton asked you to marry him?”

“Yes, papa–who else? Is he not good? Will you not love him? Oh, papa, do not say that I am wrong to love him?”

He never told her his mistake, or explained to her that he had not thought it possible that the high-placed son of the London great man should have fallen in love with his undowered daughter; but he embraced her, and told her, with all his enthusiasm, that he rejoiced in her joy, and would be happy in her happiness. “My own Patty,” he said, “I have ever known that you were too good for this life of ours here.” And then the evening wore away into the night, with many tears, but still with much happiness.

Captain Broughton, as he walked back to Oxney Combe, made up his mind that he would say nothing on the matter to his aunt till the next morning. He wanted to think over it all, and to think it over, if possible, by himself. He had taken a step in life, the most important that a man is ever called on to take, and he had to reflect whether or no he had taken it with wisdom.