“Oh dear, sir, that ’ull be a long time first,” said Mrs. Poyser, quite overcome at the young squire’s speaking so lightly of himself, and thinking how her husband would be interested in hearing her recount this remarkable specimen of high-born humour.  The captain was thought to be “very full of his jokes,” and was a great favourite throughout the estate on account of his free manners.  Every tenant was quite sure things would be different when the reins got into his hands—­there was to be a millennial abundance of new gates, allowances of lime, and returns of ten per cent.

“But where is Totty to-day?” he said.  “I want to see her.”

“Where is the little un, Hetty?” said Mrs. Poyser.  “She came in here not long ago.”

“I don’t know.  She went into the brewhouse to Nancy, I think.”

The proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show her Totty, passed at once into the back kitchen, in search of her, not, however, without misgivings lest something should have happened to render her person and attire unfit for presentation.

“And do you carry the butter to market when you’ve made it?” said the Captain to Hetty, meanwhile.

“Oh no, sir; not when it’s so heavy.  I’m not strong enough to carry it.  Alick takes it on horseback.”

“No, I’m sure your pretty arms were never meant for such heavy weights.  But you go out a walk sometimes these pleasant evenings, don’t you?  Why don’t you have a walk in the Chase sometimes, now it’s so green and pleasant?  I hardly ever see you anywhere except at home and at church.”

“Aunt doesn’t like me to go a-walking only when I’m going somewhere,” said Hetty.  “But I go through the Chase sometimes.”

“And don’t you ever go to see Mrs. Best, the housekeeper?  I think I saw you once in the housekeeper’s room.”

“It isn’t Mrs. Best, it’s Mrs. Pomfret, the lady’s maid, as I go to see.  She’s teaching me tent-stitch and the lace-mending.  I’m going to tea with her to-morrow afternoon.”

The reason why there had been space for this tete-a-tete can only be known by looking into the back kitchen, where Totty had been discovered rubbing a stray blue-bag against her nose, and in the same moment allowing some liberal indigo drops to fall on her afternoon pinafore.  But now she appeared holding her mother’s hand—­the end of her round nose rather shiny from a recent and hurried application of soap and water.

“Here she is!” said the captain, lifting her up and setting her on the low stone shelf.  “Here’s Totty!  By the by, what’s her other name?  She wasn’t christened Totty.”

“Oh, sir, we call her sadly out of her name.  Charlotte’s her christened name.  It’s a name i’ Mr. Poyser’s family:  his grandmother was named Charlotte.  But we began with calling her Lotty, and now it’s got to Totty.  To be sure it’s more like a name for a dog than a Christian child.”

“Totty’s a capital name.  Why, she looks like a Totty.  Has she got a pocket on?” said the captain, feeling in his own waistcoat pockets.