“I suppose she means it?” asked Larry.

“I can’t say to you but what she does, Twentyman.  As far as I know her she isn’t a girl that would ever say anything that she didn’t mean.”

“I was sure of that.  When I got it and read it, it was just as though some one had come behind me and hit me over the head with a wheel-spoke.  I couldn’t have ate a morsel of breakfast if I knew I wasn’t to see another bit of food for four-and-twenty hours.”

“I knew you would feel it, Larry.”

“Feel it!  Till it came to this I didn’t think of myself but what I had more strength.  It has knocked me about till I feel all over like drinking.”

“Don’t do that, Larry.”

“I won’t answer for myself what I’ll do.  A man sets his heart on a thing,—­just on one thing,—­and has grit enough in him to be sure of himself that if he can get that nothing shall knock him over.  When that thoroughbred mare of mine slipped her foal who can say I ever whimpered.  When I got pleuro among the cattle I killed a’most the lot of ’em out of hand, and never laid awake a night about it.  But I’ve got it so heavy this time I can’t stand it.  You don’t think I have any chance, Mr. Masters?”

“You can try of course.  You’re welcome to the house.”

“But what do you think?  You must know her.”

“Girls do change their minds.”

“But she isn’t like other girls.  Is she now?  I come to you because I sometimes think Mrs. Masters is a little hard on her.  Mrs. Masters is about the best friend I have.  There isn’t anybody more on my side than she is.  But I feel sure of this;—­Mary will never be drove.”

“I don’t think she will, Larry.”

“She’s got a will of her own as well as another.”

“No man alive ever had a better daughter.”

“I’m sure of that, Mr. Masters; and no man alive ’ll ever have a better wife.  But she won’t be drove.  I might ask her again, you think?”

“You certainly have my leave.”

“But would it be any good?  I’d rather cut my throat and have done with it than go about teasing her because her parents let me come to her.”  Then there was a pause during which they walked on, the attorney feeling that he had nothing more to say.  “What I want to know,” said Larry, “is this.  Is there anybody else?”

That was just the point on which the attorney himself was perplexed.  He had asked Mary that question, and her silence had assured him that it was so.  Then he had suggested to her the name of the only probable suitor that occurred to him; and she had repelled the idea in a manner that had convinced him at once.  There was some one, but Mr. Surtees was not the man.  There was some one, he was sure, but he had not been able to cross-examine her on the subject.  He had, since that, cudgelled his brain to think who that some one might be, but had not succeeded in suggesting a name even to himself.  That of Reginald Morton, who hardly ever came to the house and whom he regarded as a silent, severe, unapproachable man, did not come into his mind.  Among the young ladies of Dillsborough Reginald Morton was never regarded as even a possible lover.  And yet there was assuredly some one.  “If there is any one else I think you ought to tell me,” continued Larry.