Now,
listen! In the county of Hampshire is a little place called
Weatherbroom--quite a little place, just a hamlet and a post-office.
Just out of the hamlet is a mill with a few acres of farm land attached.
It's awfully picturesque--a regular artists' place. By the way, are you
an artist?"
"Oh, no. I sketch a little, but----"
"That'll do. You are not an artist, but you sketch. Then you won't be
quite stranded. It's very quiet, you know. There's no society. Only the
miller and his wife, and now and then the landlord--an out-at-elbows
loafer who drifts about town and, very occasionally, plays knight errant
to ladies in distress. There isn't even a curate. Can you possibly
endure it?"
She raised her head and laughed--a sweet, spontaneous laugh,
inexpressibly gay.
"Oh, you are good--just good! It's the only word that describes you. I
always felt you were. I didn't know you were a landed proprietor,
though."
"In a very small way," he assured her.
"How nice!" she said eagerly. "Yes, I'll go. I shall love it. But"--her
face falling--"what of you? Shall you stay in town?"
"And face the music," said the Poor Relation, with his most benign
smile. "That is my intention. Don't pity me! I shall enjoy it."
"Is it possible?" Again she looked doubtful.
"Of course it's possible. I enjoy a good row now and then. It keeps me
in condition. I'll come down and see you some day, and tell you all
about it.
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