“I shall get a scolding if I stay later,” said he, and off he went to Grassmere.

“Have you nothing else to say to me?” asked Meadows, as the farmer put his foot in the stirrup.

“Not that I know of,” replied the other, and cantered away.

“Confound him!” muttered Meadows; “he comes and stops here three hours, drinks my ale, gets my knowledge without the trouble of digging for’t, and goes away, and not a word from Susan, or even a word about her—­one word would have paid me for all this loss of time—­but no, I was not to have it.  I will be in Devonshire this time to-morrow—­no, to-morrow is market day—­but the day after I will go.  I cannot live here and not see her, nor speak to her—­’twill drive me mad.”

The next morning, as Meadows mounted his horse to ride to market, a carter’s boy came up to him, and taking off his hat and pulling his head down by the front lock by way of salute, put a note into his hand.  Meadows took it and opened it carelessly; it was a handwriting he did not know.  But his eye had no sooner glanced at the signature than his eyes gleamed and his whole frame trembled with emotion he could hardly hide.  This was the letter: 

“DEAR MR. MEADOWS—­We have not seen you here a long time, and if you could take a cup of tea with us on your way home from market, my father would be glad to see you, if it is not troubling you too much.

“I believe he has some calves he wishes to show you.

“I am, yours respectfully,

“SUSAN MERTON.

“P.  S.—­Father has been confined by rheumatism, and I have not been well this last month.”

Meadows turned away from the messenger, and said quietly, “Tell Miss Merton I will come, if possible.”  He then galloped off, and as soon as there was no one in sight gave vent to his face and his exulting soul.

Now he congratulated himself on his goodness in making a certain vow and his firmness in keeping it.

“I kept out of their way, and they have invited me; my conscience is clear.”

He then asked himself why Susan had invited him; and he could not but augur the most favorable results from this act on her part.  True, his manner to her had never gone beyond friendship, but women, he argued, are quick to discern their admirers under every disguise.  She was dull and out of spirits, and wrote for him to come to her; this was a great point, a good beginning.  “The sea is between her and George, and I am here, with time and opportunity on my side,” said Meadows; and as these thoughts coursed through his heart, his gray nag, spurred by an unconscious heel, broke into a hand-gallop, and after an hour and a half hard riding they clattered into the town of Newborough.

The habit of driving hard bargains is a good thing for teaching a man to suppress his feelings and feign indifference, yet the civil nonchalance with which Meadows, on his return from Newborough, walked into the Merton’s parlor cost him no ordinary struggle.