Nevertheless, Mrs. Rouncewell’s son has, in the course of nature and art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and called unto him Mrs. Rouncewell’s grandson, who, being out of his apprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whither he was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparations for the venture of this life, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day in Mrs. Rouncewell’s room at Chesney Wold.

“And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt!  And, once again, I am glad to see you, Watt!” says Mrs. Rouncewell.  “You are a fine young fellow.  You are like your poor uncle George.  Ah!” Mrs. Rouncewell’s hands unquiet, as usual, on this reference.

“They say I am like my father, grandmother.”

“Like him, also, my dear—­but most like your poor uncle George!  And your dear father.”  Mrs. Rouncewell folds her hands again.  “He is well?”

“Thriving, grandmother, in every way.”

“I am thankful!” Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son but has a plaintive feeling towards him, much as if he were a very honourable soldier who had gone over to the enemy.

“He is quite happy?” says she.

“Quite.”

“I am thankful!  So he has brought you up to follow in his ways and has sent you into foreign countries and the like?  Well, he knows best.  There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don’t understand.  Though I am not young, either.  And I have seen a quantity of good company too!”

“Grandmother,” says the young man, changing the subject, “what a very pretty girl that was I found with you just now.  You called her Rosa?”

“Yes, child.  She is daughter of a widow in the village.  Maids are so hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about me young.  She’s an apt scholar and will do well.  She shows the house already, very pretty.  She lives with me at my table here.”

“I hope I have not driven her away?”

“She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say.  She is very modest.  It is a fine quality in a young woman.  And scarcer,” says Mrs. Rouncewell, expanding her stomacher to its utmost limits, “than it formerly was!”

The young man inclines his head in acknowledgment of the precepts of experience.  Mrs. Rouncewell listens.

“Wheels!” says she.  They have long been audible to the younger ears of her companion.  “What wheels on such a day as this, for gracious sake?”

After a short interval, a tap at the door.  “Come in!” A dark-eyed, dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in—­so fresh in her rosy and yet delicate bloom that the drops of rain which have beaten on her hair look like the dew upon a flower fresh gathered.

“What company is this, Rosa?” says Mrs. Rouncewell.

“It’s two young men in a gig, ma’am, who want to see the house—­ yes, and if you please, I told them so!” in quick reply to a gesture of dissent from the housekeeper.  “I went to the hall-door and told them it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but the young man who was driving took off his hat in the wet and begged me to bring this card to you.”