"What does Lucy think of the matter? Do I want, or indeed deserve, a
better house?"
"I shall not answer either question," replied the dear girl, a little
saucily, I thought. "I do not understand your wants, and do not choose
to speak of your deservings. But I fancy the question will be settled
by a certain Mrs. Wallingford, one of these days. Clever women
generally determine these things for their husbands."
I endeavoured to catch Lucy's eye, when this was said, by leaning a
little forward myself; but the girl turned her head in such a manner
as prevented my seeing her face. The remark was not lost on
Mr. Hardinge, however, who took it up with warmth, and all the
interest of a most pure and disinterested affection.
"I suppose you _will_ think of marrying one of these days,
Miles," he said; "but, on no account, marry a woman who will desert
Clawbonny, or who would wish materially to alter it. No good-hearted
woman, indeed--no _true_-hearted woman--would ever dream of
either. Dear me! dear me! the happy days and the sorrowful days--the
gracious mercies of Providence, and the chastening afflictions--that I
myself have seen, and felt, and witnessed, under these same roofs!"
This was followed by a sort of enumeration of the events of the last
forty years, including passages in the lives of all who had dwelt at
the farm; the whole concluding with the divine's solemnly
repeating--"No, no! Miles; do not think, even, of marrying a woman who
would wish you to desert, or materially alter, Clawbonny.
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