The creature knew well enough what was said to him.  He lay prone on the rug, with his head on his forepaws, watching Mrs. Hatton; and she was a little uncomfortable and glad when John entered the room.  The cat ran to meet him, but John went straight to his mother’s side and said,

“Dear mother, I want your kiss and blessing tonight.  God has given me the desire of my heart, but I am not satisfied until you share my joy.”

“That means that God has given you the love and promise of Jane Harlow.”

“Yes, that is what I mean.  Sit down, mother; I must talk the matter over with you, or I shall miss some of the sweetest part of it.”

Then she lifted her face and looked at him, and it was easy to see that Love and the man had met.  Never before in all his life had she seen him so beautiful—­his broad, white forehead, his bright contemplative eyes, his sweet, loving, thoughtful face breaking into kind smiles, his gentle manner, and his scrupulously refined dress made a picture of manhood that appealed to her first, as a mother, and secondly, as a woman.  And in her heart an instantaneous change took place.  She put her hands on his shoulders and lifted her face for his kiss.

“My good son!” she said.  “Thy love is my love, and thy joy is my joy!  Sit thee down, John, and tell me all about it.”

So they sat down together on the bright hearth, sat down so close that John could feel the constant touch of his mother’s hand—­that white, firm hand which had guided and comforted him all his life long.

“Mother,” he said, “if anyone had told me this morning that I should be Jane’s betrothed husband before I slept this night, I would hardly have believed in the possibility.  But Love is like a flower; it lies quiet in its long still growth, and then in some happy hour it bursts into perfect bloom.  I had finished my business at Overton and stayed to eat the market dinner with the spinners.  Then in the quiet afternoon I took my way home, and about a mile above the village I met Jane.  I alighted and took the bridle off Bendigo’s neck over my arm, and asked permission to walk with her.  She said she was going to Harlow House, and would be glad of my company.  As we walked she told me they intended to return there; she said she felt its large rooms with their faded magnificence to be far more respectable than the little modern villa with its creaking floors and rattling windows in which they were living.”

“She is quite right,” said Mrs. Hatton.  “I wonder at them for leaving the old place.  Many a time and oft I have said that.”

“She told me they had been up there a good deal during the past summer and had enjoyed the peace and solitude of the situation; and the large silent rooms were full of stories, she said—­love stories of the old gay Regency days.  I said something about filling them with love stories of the present day, and she laughed and said her mother was going there to farm the land and make some money out of it; and she added with a smile like sunshine, ’And I am going to try and help her.  That accounts for our walk this afternoon, Mr. Hatton,’ and I told her I was that well pleased with the walk, I cared little for what had caused it.