gdoms, he
never said what he thought of these little combings of petty pie crust,
because it was not worth his while. And yet he seemed to take a kindly
liking to the young De Wichehalse; not as a youth of birth only, but
as one driven astray perhaps by harsh and austere influence. For his
father, the baron, was a godly man,--which is much to-the credit of
anyone, growing rarer and rarer, as it does,--and there should be no
rasp against such men, if they would only bear in mind that in their
time they had been young, and were not quite so perfect then. But lo!
I am writing as if I knew a great deal more than I could know until the
harrow passed over me.

No one, however, need be surprised at the favour this young man obtained
with all who came into his converse. Handsome, and beautiful as he was,
so that bold maids longed to kiss him, it was the sadness in his eyes,
and the gentle sense of doom therein, together with a laughing scorn of
it, that made him come home to our nature, in a way that it feels but
cannot talk of. And he seemed to be of the past somehow, although so
young and bright and brave; of the time when greater things were done,
and men would die for women. That he should woo three maids in vain, to
me was a stupid old woman's tale.

"Sylvia," my father said to me, when I was not even thinking of him, "no
more converse must we hold with that son of the Baron de Wichehalse. I
have ordered Pring to keep the door; and Mistress Pring, who hath the
stronger tongue, to come up if he attempted to dispute; the while I go
away to catch our supper."

He was bearing a fishing rod made by himself, and a basket strapped over
his shoulders.

"But why, father? Why should such a change be? How hath the young
gentleman displeased thee?" I put my face into his beard as I spoke,
that I might not appear too curious.

"Is it so?" he answered, "then high time is it. No more shall he enter
this "--_house_ he would have said, but being so> truthful changed it
into--"hut I was pleased with the youth. He is gentle and kind; but
weak--my dear child, remember that. Why are we in this hut, my dear? and
thou, the heiress of the best land in the world, now picking up sticks
in the wilderness? Because the man who should do us right is weak,
and wavering, and careth but for pleasure. So is this young Marwood de
Wichehalse. He rideth with the Doones. I knew it not, but now that I
know, it is enough."

My father was of tall stature