"Miss—who?" replied Mr. Thornton.
"Miss Marget–Miss Hale—th' oud parson's daughter—yo' known who I mean well enough, if yo'll only think a bit—" (there was nothing disrespectful in the tone in which this was said).
"Oh yes!" and suddenly, the wintry frost-bound look of care had left Mr. Thornton's face, as if some soft summer gale had blown all anxiety away from his mind; and though his mouth was as much compressed as before, his eyes smiled out benignly on his questioner.
"She's my landlord now, you know, Higgins. I hear of her through her agent here, every now and then. She's well and among friends—thank you, Higgins." That "thank you" that lingered after the other words, and yet came with so much warmth of feeling, let in a new light to the acute Higgins. It might be but a will-o'-th'-wisp, but he thought he would follow it and ascertain whither it would lead him.
"And she's not getten married, measter?"
"Not yet." The face was cloudy once more.
"There is some talk of it, as I understand, with a connection of the family."
"Then she'll not be for coming to Milton again, I reckon."
"No!"
"Stop a minute, measter." Then going up confidentially close, he said, "Is th' young gentleman cleared?" He enforced the depth of his intelligence by a wink of the eye, which only made things more mysterious to Mr. Thornton.
"Th' young gentleman, I mean—Master Frede-
