She met him downstairs, early, in the study, having her first request to make to him.  Might she go in at once after breakfast and tell them all?  “I suppose I ought to go to your father,” he said.  “Let me go first,” she pleaded, hanging on his arm.  “I would not think that I was not mindful of them from the very beginning.”  So she was driven into Dillsborough in the pony carriage which had been provided for old Mrs. Morton’s use, and told her own story.  “Papa,” she said, going to the office door.  “Come into the house;—­ come at once.”  And then, within her father’s arms, while her stepmother listened, she told them of her triumph.  “Mr. Reginald Morton wants me to be his wife, and he is coming here to ask you.”

“The Lord in heaven be good to us,” said Mrs. Masters, holding up both her hands.  “Is it true, child?”

“The squire!”

“It is true, papa,—­and,—­and-”

“And what, my love?”

“When he comes to you, you must say I will be.”

There was not much danger on that score.  “Was it he that you told me of?” said the attorney.  To this she only nodded her assent.  “It was Reginald Morton all the time?  Well!”

“Why shouldn’t it be he?”

“Oh no, my dear!  You are a most fortunate girl,—­most fortunate!  But somehow I never thought of it, that a child of mine should come to live at Bragton and have it, one may say, partly as her own!  It is odd after all that has come and gone.  God bless you, my dear, and make you happy.  You are a very fortunate child.”

Mrs. Masters was quite overpowered.  She had thrown herself on to the old family sofa, and was fanning herself with her handkerchief.  She had been wrong throughout, and was now completely humiliated by the family success; and yet she was delighted, though she did not dare to be triumphant.  She had so often asked both father and daughter what good gentlemen would do to either of them; and now the girl was engaged to marry the richest gentleman in the neighbourhood!  In any expression of joy she would be driven to confess how wrong she had always been.  How often had she asked what would come of Ushanting.  This it was that had come of Ushanting.  The girl had been made fit to be the companion of such a one as Reginald Morton, and had now fallen into the position which was suited to her.  “Of course we shall see nothing of you now,” she said in a whimpering voice.  It was not a gracious speech, but it was almost justified by disappointments.

“Mamma, you know that I shall never separate myself from you and the girls.”

“Poor Larry!” said the woman sobbing.  “Of course it is all for the best; but I don’t know what he’ll do now.”

“You must tell him, papa,” said Mary; “and give him my love and bid him be a man.”

CHAPTER XVIII

“Bid him be a Man”