Fritzing quite loved Tussie.  Here was a young man full of the noblest spirit of helpfulness, and who had besides the invaluable gift of seeing no difficulties anywhere.  Even Fritzing, airy optimist, saw more than Tussie, and whenever he expressed a doubt it was at once brushed aside by the cheerfullest “Oh, that’ll be all right.”  He was the most practical, businesslike, unaffected, energetic young man, thought Fritzing, that he had even seen.  Tussie was surprised himself at his own briskness, and putting the wonderful girl on the heath as much as possible out of his thoughts, told himself that it was the patent food beginning at last to keep its promises.

He took Fritzing to the post-office and ordered the trap for him, cautioned the postmistress’s son, who was going to drive, against going too fast down the many hills, for the bare idea of the priceless uncle being brought back in bits or in any state but absolutely whole and happy turned him cold, told Fritzing which shops to go to and where to lunch, begged him to be careful what he ate, since hotel luncheons were good for neither body nor soul, ordered rugs and a mackintosh covering to be put in, and behaved generally with the forethought of a mother.  “I’d go with you myself,” he said,—­and the postmistress, listening with both her ears, recognized that the Baker’s Farm lodgers were no longer persons to be criticised—­“but I can be of more use to you here.  I must see Dawson about clearing out the cottages.  Of course it is very important you shouldn’t stay a moment longer than can be helped in uncomfortable lodgings.”

Here was a young man!  Sensible, practical, overflowing with kindness.  Fritzing had not met any one he esteemed so much for years.  They went down the village street together, for Tussie was bound for Mr. Dawson who was to be set to work at once, and Fritzing for the farm whither the trap was to follow him as soon as ready, and all Symford, curtseying to Tussie, recognized, as the postmistress had recognized, that Fritzing was now raised far above their questionings, seated firmly on the Shuttleworth rock.

They parted at Mr. Dawson’s gate, Mrs. Dawson mildly watching their warmth over a wire blind.  “When we are settled, young man,” said Fritzing, after eloquent words of thanks and appreciation, “you must come in the evenings, and together we will roam across the splendid fields of English literature.”

“Oh thanks” exclaimed Tussie, flushing with pleasure.  He longed to ask if the divine niece would roam too, but even if she did not, to roam at all would be a delight, and he would besides be doing it under the very roof that sheltered that bright and beautiful head.  “Oh thanks,” cried Tussie, then, flushing.

His extreme joy surprised Fritzing.  “Are you so great a friend of literature?” he inquired.

“I believe,” said Tussie, “that without it I’d have drowned myself long ago.  And as for the poets—­”