ower or mine to change what
has once been done, and set me fancy-free. I'll marry you, if you like;
but I tell you again and again, it's not worth while, and we had best
stay friends. Though I am a quiet man I have noticed a heap of things in
my life. Trust in me, and take things as I propose; or, if you don't
like that, say the word, and I'll marry you out of hand.'

There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began to feel uneasy, began
to grow angry in consequence.

'It seems you are too proud to say your mind,' he said. 'Believe me
that's a pity. A clean shrift makes simple living. Can a man be more
downright or honourable, to a woman than I have been? I have said my
say, and given you your choice. Do you want me to marry you? or will you
take my friendship, as I think best? or have you had enough of me for
good? Speak out for the dear God's sake! You know your father told you
a girl should speak her mind in these affairs.'

She seemed to recover herself at that, turned without a word, walked
rapidly through the garden, and disappeared into the house, leaving Will
in some confusion as to the result. He walked up and down the garden,
whistling softly to himself. Sometimes he stopped and contemplated the
sky and hill-tops; sometimes he went down to the tail of the weir and sat
there, looking foolishly in the water. All this dubiety and perturbation
was so foreign to his nature and the life which he had resolutely chosen
for himself, that he began to regret Marjory's arrival. 'After all,' he
thought, 'I was as happy as a man need be. I could come down here and
watch my fishes all day long if I wanted: I was as settled and contented
as my old mill.'

Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim and quiet; and no sooner
were all three at table than she made her father a speech, with her eyes
fixed upon her plate, but showing no other sign of embarrassment or
distress.

'Father,' she began, 'Mr. Will and I have been talking things over. We
see that we have each made a mistake about our feelings, and he has
agreed, at my request, to give up all idea of marriage, and be no more
than my very good friend, as in the past. You see, there is no shadow of
a quarrel, and indeed I hope we shall see a great deal of him in the
future, for his visits will always be welcome in our house. Of course,
father, you will know best, but perhaps we should do better to leave Mr.
Will's house for the present. I believ