Margaret Maliphant

								

parted, without even the solace of correspondence, from the man whom
she loved? I believe in my secret soul I set Joyce down as wanting
in feeling for not fretting more than she did; but she was out of
spirits, and mother had agreed with me that Joyce was pale, and had
better choose this time for a visit to Aunt Naomi, which had been a
promise for a long time. And now it was impossible to put it off.
Joyce came back from a dream with a little sigh, and turned towards me.
"Well, did you see Mr. Trayton Harrod this morning, Margaret?" asked
she. "Deborah says he was here to see father. When does he come for
good?"
"I don't know," answered I, shortly. "I know nothing at all about Mr.
Trayton Harrod." Joyce sighed a little. "Deborah says he is a plain
kind of man," continued she--"very tall and broad, and very short in
his manners."
"He can't be too short in his manner for me," answered I. "He'll find
me short too."
Joyce stretched out her hand and laid it on mine. It was a great
deal for her to do. In the first place, we were not given to outward
demonstrations of affection; and in the second place, Joyce knew that I
abhorred sympathy, and that from my earliest childhood I had always hit
out at people who dared to pity me for my hurts.
"Dear Margaret," said she, "I want you not to be so much set against
this young man. Father said he was a straightforward, good sort of
fellow, you know; and you can't be sure that he will be disagreeable
until you know him."
"I don't suppose he is going to be disagreeable at all," declared I.
"He may be the most delightful man in the world; I've no doubt he is.
I only say that he is nothing to me. I shall have nothing to do with
him, and I sha'n't know whether he is delightful or not."
"Well, if you begin like that, it will be setting yourself against
him," said Joyce, bravely. She paused a moment, and then added, "I'm in
hopes it will be a good thing for father. I've often thought of late
that the work was too hard for him. Father's not the man he was."
"Father's all right," insisted I. "It's always the strongest men who
have the gout. You'll see father will walk the young ones off the
ground yet when it comes to a day's work. A man can work for his
own--he works whether he be tired or not; but a hireling--why should a
hireling work when he hasn't a mind to? It's nothing to him; he gets
his wage anyway."
This theory seemed to trouble Joyce a bit, for she was silent.
"No," said I, "it'll be no go. He won't understand anything at all
about it, and all he will do will be to set everybody by the ears."
"I don't see why that need be," persisted Joyce. "The squire says that
he has been brought up to hard work, and that he has quite a remarkable
knowledge of the country."
"Yes, what good did his knowledge of the country do him?" asked I,
scornfully. "He managed his father's farm in Kent, and his father died
a bankrupt. I don't call that much of a recommendation."