ich as Midas, or as poor as a church-mouse. But on one
thing Austin was determined--Aunt Charlotte must be saved from herself,
if necessary. They wanted no interloper in their peaceful home. And he,
Austin, would go forth into the world, wooden leg and all, rather than
submit to be saddled with a step-uncle.

As for Aunt Charlotte, she, too, deemed it beyond the dreams of
possibility that she would ever marry. In fact, it was only Austin's
nonsense that had put so ridiculous a notion into her head. It was
true that, in the years gone by, the attentions of young Granville
Ogilvie had occasioned her heart a flutter. Perhaps some faint,
far-off reverberation of that flutter was making itself felt in her
heart now. It is so, no doubt, with many maiden ladies when they look
back upon the past. But if she had ever felt a little sore at her
sudden abandonment by the mercurial young man who had once touched her
fancy, the tiny scratch had healed and been forgotten long ago. At the
same time, although the idea of marriage after five-and-twenty years
was too absurd to be dwelt on for a moment, the worthy lady could not
help feeling how delightful it would be to be _asked_. Of course, that
would involve the extremely painful process of refusing; and Aunt
Charlotte, in spite of her rough tongue, was a merciful woman, and
never willingly inflicted suffering upon anybody. Even blackbeetles,
as she often told herself, were God's creatures, and Mr Ogilvie,
although he had deserted her, no doubt had finer sensibilities than a
blackbeetle. So she did not wish to hurt him if she could avoid it;
still, a proposal of marriage at the age of forty-seven would be
rather a feather in her cap, and she was too true a woman to be
indifferent to that coveted decoration. But then, once more, it was
quite possible that he would not propose at all.

The next morning Austin put on his straw hat, and went and sat down by
the old stone fountain in the full blaze of the sun, as was his
custom. Lubin was somewhere in the shrubbery, and, unaware that anyone
was within hearing, was warbling lustily to himself. Austin
immediately pricked up his ears, for he had had no idea that Lubin was
a vocalist. Away he carolled blithely enough, in a rough but not
unmusical voice, and Austin was just able to catch some of the words
of the quaint old west-country ballad that he was singing.

"Welcome to town, Tom Dove, Tom Dove,
The merriest man alive,