traveller, or an Anglo-Indian nabob, or a needy haunter of Continental pensions, or a convict just emerged from a term of penal servitude.  He might be as rich as Midas, or as poor as a church-mouse.  But on one thing Austin was determined—­Aunt Charlotte must be saved from herself, if necessary.  They wanted no interloper in their peaceful home.  And he, Austin, would go forth into the world, wooden leg and all, rather than submit to be saddled with a step-uncle.

As for Aunt Charlotte, she, too, deemed it beyond the dreams of possibility that she would ever marry.  In fact, it was only Austin’s nonsense that had put so ridiculous a notion into her head.  It was true that, in the years gone by, the attentions of young Granville Ogilvie had occasioned her heart a flutter.  Perhaps some faint, far-off reverberation of that flutter was making itself felt in her heart now.  It is so, no doubt, with many maiden ladies when they look back upon the past.  But if she had ever felt a little sore at her sudden abandonment by the mercurial young man who had once touched her fancy, the tiny scratch had healed and been forgotten long ago.  At the same time, although the idea of marriage after five-and-twenty years was too absurd to be dwelt on for a moment, the worthy lady could not help feeling how delightful it would be to be asked.  Of course, that would involve the extremely painful process of refusing; and Aunt Charlotte, in spite of her rough tongue, was a merciful woman, and never willingly inflicted suffering upon anybody.  Even blackbeetles, as she often told herself, were God’s creatures, and Mr Ogilvie, although he had deserted her, no doubt had finer sensibilities than a blackbeetle.  So she did not wish to hurt him if she could avoid it; still, a proposal of marriage at the age of forty-seven would be rather a feather in her cap, and she was too true a woman to be indifferent to that coveted decoration.  But then, once more, it was quite possible that he would not propose at all.

The next morning Austin put on his straw hat, and went and sat down by the old stone fountain in the full blaze of the sun, as was his custom.  Lubin was somewhere in the shrubbery, and, unaware that anyone was within hearing, was warbling lustily to himself.  Austin immediately pricked up his ears, for he had had no idea that Lubin was a vocalist.  Away he carolled blithely enough, in a rough but not unmusical voice, and Austin was just able to catch some of the words of the quaint old west-country ballad that he was singing.

    “Welcome to town, Tom Dove, Tom Dove,
       The merriest man alive,
     Thy company still we love, we love,
       God grant thee still to thrive. 
     And never will we, depart from thee,
       For better or worse, my joy! 
     For thou shalt still, have our good will,
       God’s blessing on my sweet boy.”

“Bravo, Lubin!” cried Austin, clapping his hands.  “You do sing beautifully.  And what a delightful old song!  Where did you pick it up?”