’True, my dear.  I saw she was very tired of her life here, and I thought it was better.  But I’m sorely afraid London has spoiled her.  No, Mary, you can stay with me to the end, if you like.  There is room enough for you and your husband under this roof.  I like this Mr. Hammond.  His is the only face that ever recalled the face of the dead.  Yes, I like him; and although I know nothing about him except what Maulevrier tells me—­and that is of the scantiest—­still I feel, somehow, that I can trust him.  Send your lover to me, Mary.  I want to have a serious talk with him.’

Mary ran off to obey, fluttered, blushing, and trembling.  This idea of marriage in the immediate future was to be the last degree startling.  A year had seemed a very long time; and she had been told that she and her lover must wait a year at the very least; so that vision of marriage had seemed afar off in the dim shadowland of the future.  She had been told nothing by her lover of where she was to live, or what her life was to be like when she was his wife.  And now she was told that they were to be married almost immediately, that they were to live in the house where she had been reared, in that familiar land of hills and waters, that they were to roam about the dales and mountains together, they two, as man and wife.  The whole thing was wonderful, bewildering, impossible almost.

This was on the first morning after Mr. Hammond’s arrival.  Maulevrier had gone off to hunt the Rotha for otters, and was up to his waist in the water, no doubt, by this time.  Hammond was strolling up and down the terrace in front of the house, looking at the green expanse of Fairfield, the dark bulk of Seat Sandal, the nearer crests of Helm Crag and Silver Howe.

‘You are to come to her ladyship directly, please,’ said Mary, going up to him.

He took both her hands, drew her nearer to him, smiling down at her.  They had been sitting side by side at the breakfast table half-an-hour ago, he waiting upon her as she poured out the tea; yet by his tender greeting and the delight in his face it might have been supposed they had not met for weeks.  Such are the sweet inanities of love.

’What does her ladyship want with me, darling? and why are you blushing?’ he asked.

‘I—­I think she is going to talk about—­our—­marriage,’ faltered Mary.

’"Why, I will talk to her upon this theme until mine eyelids can no longer wag,"’ quoted Hammond.  ’Take me to her, Mary.  I hope her ladyship is growing sensible.’

‘She is very kind, very sweet.  She has changed so much of late.’