to quarrel about it, as one more or less doesn't much matter.

His professional duties must be pretty elastic, for it is now Wednesday
and he has not gone back; though, to be sure, he has done a fair amount
of pleading in a local court and has won the first part of his case and
seems likely to be successful in the next. A remarkable thing about
these bachelors who have waited so long is that they cannot afford to
wait the least bit longer. They are no sooner engaged than they must
be married. But in this instance things are going to be done decently
and in order. The squire says we do not know each other well enough
yet, and suggests two years as the term of our engagement, but I think
we shall compromise on four months.

"What about my studio, Philip?" I asked this morning. "I have not seen
it for days, and it is as dear to me as a lover."

"Is it?" he said; "can you bear to walk as far?"

"Why, of course," I replied; "I'm all right now."

"You'll have to take my arm," he remarked; "you are only shaky yet."

It was merely an excuse, but I did it to please him. Of course all the
village knows what has happened, and a dozen friendly folk nodded, or
smiled or shouted their congratulations according to the measure of
their intimacy or reserve.

When we came in sight of my cottage the studio was nowhere to be seen,
and, greatly surprised, I turned to the Cynic for an explanation, but
he merely pressed my arm and said:

"Farmer Goodenough is there. He will tell you all about it."

I held my peace until we entered the field and stood by my late
landlord's side. Explanation was unnecessary, for the field was still
littered with splintered wood and broken glass, though much of it had
been cleared away.

"So you're about again, miss! Well, I'm downright glad to see you."
Then, indicating the _debris_ with an inclination of the head: "I've
sorted out all 'at seemed to be worth ought. All t' glass picturs 'at
weren't reight smashed I've put into a box an' ta'en into t' 'ouse.
But there isn't much left. Them 'at saw it say 'at t' stewdio cut up
t' paddock like a hairyplane, an' it must ha' collapsed in t' same way."

"It knew it was doomed," remarked the Cynic, "supplanted--and it
promptly put an end to itself."

"Well, never mind, miss," put in Reuben, "there's nought to fret about.
'Off wi' the old love an' on with the new!' I'd nearly put that down
to t' Owd Book, but I should ha' been mista'en. Howeve