The lunch—­a hot savoury mutton-chop, and a little of the cold loin sliced and fried—­was now brought in.  Every morsel of this last dish was finished, to Martha’s great gratification.  Then my father bluntly told Miss Matty he wanted to talk to me alone, and that he would stroll out and see some of the old places, and then I could tell her what plan we thought desirable.  Just before we went out, she called me back and said, “Remember, dear, I’m the only one left—­I mean, there’s no one to be hurt by what I do.  I’m willing to do anything that’s right and honest; and I don’t think, if Deborah knows where she is, she’ll care so very much if I’m not genteel; because, you see, she’ll know all, dear.  Only let me see what I can do, and pay the poor people as far as I’m able.”

I gave her a hearty kiss, and ran after my father.  The result of our conversation was this.  If all parties were agreeable, Martha and Jem were to be married with as little delay as possible, and they were to live on in Miss Matty’s present abode; the sum which the Cranford ladies had agreed to contribute annually being sufficient to meet the greater part of the rent, and leaving Martha free to appropriate what Miss Matty should pay for her lodgings to any little extra comforts required.  About the sale, my father was dubious at first.  He said the old rectory furniture, however carefully used and reverently treated, would fetch very little; and that little would be but as a drop in the sea of the debts of the Town and County Bank.  But when I represented how Miss Matty’s tender conscience would be soothed by feeling that she had done what she could, he gave way; especially after I had told him the five-pound note adventure, and he had scolded me well for allowing it.  I then alluded to my idea that she might add to her small income by selling tea; and, to my surprise (for I had nearly given up the plan), my father grasped at it with all the energy of a tradesman.  I think he reckoned his chickens before they were hatched, for he immediately ran up the profits of the sales that she could effect in Cranford to more than twenty pounds a year.  The small dining-parlour was to be converted into a shop, without any of its degrading characteristics; a table was to be the counter; one window was to be retained unaltered, and the other changed into a glass door.  I evidently rose in his estimation for having made this bright suggestion.  I only hoped we should not both fall in Miss Matty’s.

But she was patient and content with all our arrangements.  She knew, she said, that we should do the best we could for her; and she only hoped, only stipulated, that she should pay every farthing that she could be said to owe, for her father’s sake, who had been so respected in Cranford.  My father and I had agreed to say as little as possible about the bank, indeed never to mention it again, if it could be helped.  Some of the plans were evidently a little perplexing to her; but she had seen me sufficiently