Bartley began to feel his way with Colonel Clifford about the farm.  He told him he was pretty successful in agriculture, thanks to the assistance of an experienced friend, and then he said, half carelessly, “By-the-bye, they tell me you have one to let.  Is that so?”

“Walter,” said Colonel Clifford, “have you a farm to let?”

“Not at present, sir; but one will be vacant in a month, unless the present tenant consents to pay thirty per cent. more than he has done.”

“Might I see that farm, Mr. Walter?” asked Bartley.

“Certainly,” said Walter; “I shall be happy to show you over it.”  Then he turned to Mary.  “I am afraid it would be no compliment to you.  Ladies are not interested in farms.”

“Oh, but I am, since papa is, and Mr. Hope:  and then on our farm there are so many dear little young things:  little calves, little lambs, and little pigs.  Little pigs are ducks—­very little ones, I mean; and there is nearly always a young colt about, that eats out of my hand.  Not like a farm?  The idea!”

“Then I will show you all over ours, you and your papa,” said Walter, warmly.  He then asked Mr. Bartley where he was to be found; and when Bartley told him at the “Dun Cow,” he looked at Mary and said, “Oh!”

Mary understood in a moment, and laughed and said:  “We are very comfortable, I assure you.  We have the parlor all to ourselves, and there are samplers hung up, and oh! such funny pictures, and the landlady is beginning to spoil me already.”

“Nobody can spoil you, Mary,” said Mr. Bartley.

“You ought to know, papa, for you have been trying a good many years.”

“Not very many, Miss Bartley,” said Colonel Clifford, graciously.  Then he gave half a start and said:  “Here am I calling her miss when she is my own niece, and, now I think of it, she can’t be half as old as she looks.  I remember the very day she was born.  My dear, you are an impostor.”

Bartley changed color at this chance shaft.  But Colonel Clifford explained: 

“You pass for twenty, and you can’t be more than—­Let me see.”

“I am fifteen and four months,” said Mary, “and I do take people in—­cruelly.”

“Well,” said Colonel Clifford, “you see you can’t take me in.  I know your date.  So come and give your old ruffian of an uncle a kiss.”

“That I will,” cried Mary, and flew at Colonel Clifford, and flung both arms round his neck and kissed him.  “Oh, papa,” said she, “I have got an uncle now.  A hero, too; and me that is so fond of heroes!  Only this is my first—­out of books.”

“Mary, my dear,” said Bartley, “you are too impetuous.  Please excuse her, Colonel Clifford.  Now, my dear, shake hands with your cousin, for we must be going.”

Mary complied; but not at all impetuously.  She lowered her long lashes, and put out her hand timidly, and said, “Good-by, Cousin Walter.”