“Dry!” exclaimed Valentine, “you can’t keep anything dry in such a climate as this—­not even your jokes.”

“Hear, hear,” said John Mortimer; “if the old man was not a teetotaler, and I myself were not so nearly concerned in this public recognition of our merits, I should certainly propose his health.”

“Don’t let such considerations sway you,” exclaimed Valentine rising.  “Jones, will you tell him that you left me on my legs, proposing his health in ginger-pop—­’Mr. Nicholas Swan.’”

Mr. Nicholas Swan.  Not one word of the ridiculous speech which followed the toast was heard by Laura, nor did she observe the respectful glee with which the butler retired, saying, “I think we’ve got a rise out of the True Blue now, sir.  I’m told, sir, that the potatoes shown by the other side, compared with these, seemed no bigger than bullets.”

Mr. Nicholas Swan.  A sudden beating at the heart kept Mrs. Melcombe silent, and as for Laura, she had never blushed so deeply in her life.  Joseph’s name was Swan, and it flashed into her mind in an instant that he had told her his father was a gardener.

She sat lost in thought, and nervous, scarcely able to answer when some casual remark was made to her, and the meal was over before she had succeeded in persuading herself that this man could not be Joseph’s father, because her coming straight to the place where he lived was too improbable.

“There goes Swanny across the lawn, father,” said one of the twins, and thereupon they all went to the bow-window, and calling the old man, began to congratulate him, while he leaned his arms on the window-frame, which was at a convenient height from the ground, and gave them an account of his success.

They grouped themselves on the seats near.  Mrs. Melcombe took the chair pushed up for her where, as John Mortimer said, she could see the view.  Laura followed, having snatched up a book of photographs, with which she could appear to be occupied, for she did not want to attract the gardener’s attention by sitting farther than others did from the window; and as she mechanically turned the leaves, she hearkened keenly to Swan’s remarks, and tried to decide that he was not like Joseph.

“The markiss, sir?  Yes, sir, his gardener, Mr. Fergus, took the best prize for strawberries and green peas.  You’ll understand that those airly tates were from seedlings of my own—­that’s where their great merit lies, and why they were first.  They gave Blakis the cottagers’ prize for lettuce; that I uphold was wrong.  Said I, ’Those lettuce heads that poor Raby shows air the biggest ever I set my eyes on,’ ‘Swan,’ says Mr. Tikey, ‘we must encourage them that has good characters.’  ‘Well, now, if you come to think, sir,’ says I, ’it’s upwards of ten years since Raby stole that pair of boots,’ and I say (though they was my boots) that should be forgot now, and he should have the cottagers’ prize, but stealing never gets forgiven.”