never will go away, if you
will love me as you did."

Here Mary stopped; for the short breath of a sob was threatening to
catch her words; and her nature was too like her father's to let him
triumph over her. The sense of wrong was in her heart, as firm and
deep as in his own, and her love of justice quite as strong; only they
differed as to what it was. Therefore Mary would not sob until she was
invited. She stood in the arch of trimmed yew-tree, almost within reach
of his arms; and though it was dark, he knew her face as if the sun was
on it.

"Dearie, sit down here," he said; "there used to be room for you and me,
without two chairs, when you was my child."

"Father, I am still your child," she answered, softly, sitting by him.
"Were you looking for me just now? Say it was me you were looking for."

"There is such a lot of rogues to look for; they skulk about so, and
they fire the stacks--"

"Now, father, you never could tell a fib," she answered, sidling closer
up, and preparing for his repentance.

"I say that I was looking for a rogue. If the cap fits--" here he
smiled a little, as much as to say, "I had you there;" and then, without
meaning it, from simple force of habit, he did a thing equal to utter
surrender. He stroked his chin, as he always used to do when going to
kiss Mary, that the bristles might lie down for her.

"The cap doesn't fit; nothing fits but you; you--you--you, my own dear
father," she cried, as she kissed him again and again, and put her arms
round to protect him. "And nobody fits you, but your own Mary. I knew
you were sorry. You needn't say it. You are too stubborn, and I will let
you off. Now don't say a word, father, I can do without it. I don't want
to humble you, but only to make you good; and you are the very best of
all people, when you please. And you never must be cross again with your
darling Mary. Promise me immediately; or you shall have no supper."

"Well," said the farmer, "I used to think that I was gifted with the
gift of argument. Not like a woman, perhaps; but still pretty well for
a man, as can't spare time for speechifying, and hath to earn bread for
self and young 'uns."

"Father, it is that arguing spirit that has done you so much harm. You
must take things as Heaven sends them; and not go arguing about them.
For instance, Heaven has sent you me."

"So a' might," Master Anerley replied; "but without a voice from the
belly of a fish, I wunna' believe that He