“You have called them forth.  I was told yesterday that Afy Hallijohn, dressed up to a caricature, was looking after me again.  It won’t do, Afy.”

“Oh-o-o-oh!” sobbed Afy, growing hysterical, “and is this to be all my recompense for the years I have spent pining after you, keeping single for your sake!”

“Recompense!  Oh, if you want that, I’ll get my mother to give Jiffin her custom.”  And with a ringing laugh, which, though it had nothing of malice in it, showed Afy that he took her reproach for what it was worth, Richard turned in at his own gate.

It was a deathblow to Afy’s vanity.  The worst it had ever received; and she took a few minutes to compose herself, and smooth her ruffled feathers.  Then she turned and sailed back toward Mr. Jiffin’s, her turban up in the skies and the plume de coq tossing to the admiration of all beholders, especially of Miss Carlyle, who had the gratification of surveying her from her window.  Arrived at Mr. Jiffin’s, she was taken ill exactly opposite his door, and staggered into the shop in a most exhausted state.

Round the counter flew Mr. Jiffin, leaving the shopman staring behind it.  What was the matter?  What could he do for her?

“Faint—­heat of the sun—­walked too fast—­allowed to sit down for five minutes!” gasped Afy, in disjointed sentences.

Mr. Jiffin tenderly conducted her through the shop to his parlor.  Afy cast half an eye round, saw how comfortable were its arrangements, and her symptoms of faintness increased.  Gasps and hysterical sobs came forth together.  Mr. Jiffin was as one upon spikes.

“She’d recover better there than in the public shop—­if she’d only excuse his bringing her in, and consent to stop for a few minutes.  No harm could come to her, and West Lynne could never say it.  He’d stand at the far end of the room, right away from her; he’d prop open the two doors and the windows; he’d call in the maid—­anything she thought right.  Should he get her a glass of wine?”

Afy declined the wine by a gesture, and sat fanning herself.  Mr. Jiffin looking on from a respectful distance.  Gradually she grew composed—­grew herself again.  As she gained courage, Mr. Jiffin lost it, and he ventured upon some faint words of reproach, of him.

Afy burst into a laugh.  “Did I not do it well?” she exclaimed.  “I thought I’d play off a joke upon you, so I came out this afternoon and did it.”

Mr. Jiffin clasped his hands. “Was it a joke” he returned, trembling with agitation, uncertain whether he was in paradise or not.  “Are you still ready to let me call you mine?”

“Of course it was a joke,” said Afy.  “What a soft you must have been, Mr. Jiffin, not to see through it!  When young ladies engage themselves to be married, you can’t suppose they run back from it, close upon the wedding-day?”

“Oh, Miss Afy!” And the poor little man actually burst into delicious tears, as he caught hold of Afy’s hand and kissed it.