The farmer smiled.

“You never can exactly reckon about them; that’s true.”

He was led to think:  “Dahlia’s the lass;” seeing that Robert had not had many opportunities of speaking with her.

“When my girls are wives, they’ll do their work in the house,” he pursued.  “They may have a little bit o’ property in land, ye know, and they may have a share in—­in gold.  That’s not to be reckoned on.  We’re an old family, Robert, and I suppose we’ve our pride somewhere down.  Anyhow, you can’t look on my girls and not own they’re superior girls.  I’ve no notion of forcing them to clean, and dish up, and do dairying, if it’s not to their turn.  They’re handy with th’ needle.  They dress conformably, and do the millinery themselves.  And I know they say their prayers of a night.  That I know, if that’s a comfort to ye, and it should be, Robert.  For pray, and you can’t go far wrong; and it’s particularly good for girls.  I’ll say no more.”

At the dinner-table, Rhoda was not present.  Mr. Fleming fidgeted, blamed her and excused her, but as Robert appeared indifferent about her absence, he was confirmed in his idea that Dahlia attracted his fancy.

They had finished dinner, and Master Gammon had risen, when a voice immediately recognized as the voice of Anthony Hackbut was heard in the front part of the house.  Mr. Fleming went round to him with a dismayed face.

“Lord!” said Mrs. Sumfit, “how I tremble!”

Robert, too, looked grave, and got away from the house.  The dread of evil news of Dahlia was common to them all; yet none had mentioned it, Robert conceiving that it would be impertinence on his part to do so; the farmer, that the policy of permitting Dahlia’s continued residence in London concealed the peril; while Mrs. Sumfit flatly defied the threatening of a mischance to one so sweet and fair, and her favourite.  It is the insincerity of persons of their class; but one need not lay stress on the wilfulness of uneducated minds.  Robert walked across the fields, walking like a man with an object in view.  As he dropped into one of the close lanes which led up to Wrexby Hall, he saw Rhoda standing under an oak, her white morning-dress covered with sun-spots.  His impulse was to turn back, the problem, how to speak to her, not being settled within him.  But the next moment his blood chilled; for he had perceived, though he had not felt simultaneously, that two gentlemen were standing near her, addressing her.  And it was likewise manifest that she listened to them.  These presently raised their hats and disappeared.  Rhoda came on toward Robert.

“You have forgotten your dinner,” he said, with a queer sense of shame at dragging in the mention of that meal.

“I have been too happy to eat,” Rhoda replied.

Robert glanced up the lane, but she gave no heed to this indication, and asked:  “Has uncle come?”

“Did you expect him?”