The affair necessarily created a great stir in the busy little town.  As the cheerful clatter of the trip-hammer echoed along the stream on still evenings, and the fiery plume waved over the chimney, neighbors looked out from their windows, and wondered if the good blacksmith would, after so many years of honest toil, be stripped of his property and be reduced to dependence in his old age.  The sympathy of the villagers was wholly with him; but the lawyer held so many threads of interest in his hands, that few dared to give an opinion with much emphasis.

Probably the person most grieved and indignant was the one who, next after the blacksmith, was most interested in the event of the suit,—­namely, Mildred Kinloch.  Though no mention was made of the matter, at home, in her hearing, she could not fail to know what was going on; but she had now sufficient knowledge of her step-mother and her guardian to be aware that her influence would not be of the least avail in changing their purpose.

Mrs. Kinloch did not repeat the experiment she once made on Mildred’s sensibilities by referring to her partiality for Mark Davenport and his relatives; but, on the contrary, was most gentle in her treatment and most assiduous in her endeavors to provide amusement, so far as the resources of the town allowed.  In company with Hugh, Mildred explored all the pleasant roads in the vicinity, all the picturesque hills and brooks, caught trout, and snared gamebirds, (the last much against her will,)—­and by these means her time was fully occupied.  Hugh seemed to have totally changed; he no longer absented himself from the family on mysterious errands; he went to church regularly, and appeared to take pleasure in the frequent calls of Mr. Rook, the minister.  The neighbors began to say that there never was a more dutiful son or a more attentive and affectionate brother.  Some half suspected the reason of the reformation,—­no one so quick as Squire Clamp, who had reasons of his own, as the reader knows, for wishing delay.  After a few months had passed, he thought it would be dangerous to let the schemes of the widow go on longer without interruption, and accordingly prepared to make a step towards his own long-cherished purpose.

CHAPTER XI.

One afternoon, about six months after the opening of our story, Mrs. Kinloch and her son were talking together concerning the progress of his suit.  He complained that he was no nearer the point than on the first day he and Mildred rode out together.  “It was like rounding Cape Horn,” he said, “where a ship might lie twenty days and drift back as fast as she got ahead by tacking.”  In spite of all his attention and kindness, Mildred was merely courteous in return;—­he could not get near her.  If she smiled, it seemed as though it was from behind a grating, as in a nunnery.  Her pulse was always firm; and if her eye was soft, it was steady as the full moon.  He didn’t believe she had any blood in her.  If she was in love with that fellow, she kept it pretty closely covered up.