“Please God, you will!” said Josey, devoutly—­“And please God, so shall I. But there’s never no knowin’ what may ’appen in a day or two days—–­”

Here Ipsie gave vent to a yell of delight.  She had been groping among the flowers in the cottage border, and now held up a deep red rose, darkly glowing at its centre.

“Wed wose!” she announced, screamingly—­“Wed—­all wed!  For Passon!  Passon, tiss it!”

John still leaning on the gate, reached down and took the flower, kissing it as he was told, with lips that trembled on the velvet leaves.  It was one of the ‘old French damask’ roses—­and its rich scent, so soft and full of inexplicable fine delicacy, affected him strangely.

“’Ave ye heard as ‘ow Miss Maryllia’s goin’ to marry that fine gen’leman wot’s at Badsworth?” pursued Josey, presently, beginning to chuckle as he asked the question—­“Roxmouth, they calls him;—­ Lord, Lord, what clicketin’ talk, like all the grass-’oppers out for a fairin’!  She ain’t goin’ to marry no Roxmouths, bless ’er ’art!—­ she’s goin’ to stick to the old ‘ome an’ people, and never leave ’em no more! I knows her mind!  She tells old Josey wot she don’t tell nobody else, you bet she do!”

John Walden tried not to look interested.

“Miss Vancourt will no doubt marry some day,”—­he said, somewhat lamely.

“Av coorse she will!”—­returned Josey—­“When Mr. Right comes along, she’ll know ‘im fast enough!  Them blue eyes ain’t goin’ to be deceived, I tell ye!  But she ain’t goin’ to be no Duchess as they sez,—­it’s my ’pinion plain Missis is good ’nough for the Squire’s gel, if so be a lovin’ an’ true Mister was to ax ’er and say—­’Will ‘ee be my purty little wife, an’ warm my cold ‘art all the days o’ my life?’—­an’ there’d be no wantin’ dukes nor lords round when there’s real love drivin’ a man an’ woman into each other’s arms!  Lord—­Lord, don’t I know it!  Seems but t’other day I was a fine man o’ thirty odd, an’ walkin’ under the hawthorns all white wi’ bloom, an’ my wife that was to be strollin’ shy like at my side—­we was kind o’ skeered o’ one another, courtin’ without knowin’ we was courtin’ ezackly, an’ she ‘ad a little blue print gown on an’ a white linen sunbonnet—­I kin see ‘er as clear an’ plain as I see you, Passon!—­an’ she looks up an’ she sez—­’Ain’t it a lovely day, Joe?’ An’ I sez—­’Yes, it’s lovely, an’ you’re lovely too!’ An’ my ‘art gave a great dump agin my breast, an’ ’fore I knowed it I ’ad ‘er in my arms a-kissin’ ’er for all I was worth!  Ay, that was so—­ an’ I never regretted them kisses under the may-trees, I tell ye!  An’ that’s what’ll ’appen to Squire’s gel—­some good man ’ull walk by ‘er side one o’ these days, an’ won’t know wot he’s a-doin’ of nor she neither, an’ love ‘ull just come down an’ settle in their ‘arts like a broodin’ dove o’ the ‘Oly Spirit, not speakin’ blasPHEmous, Passon, I do assure ye!  For if Love ain’t a ’Oly Spirit, then there ain’t no Lord God in the ‘Love one another!’ I sez ’tis a ’Oly Spirit wot draws fond ‘arts together an’ makes ’em beat true—­and the ’Oly Spirit ’ull fall on Squire’s gel in its own time an’ bring a blessin’ with it.  That’s wot I sez,—­are ye goin’, Passon?”