Ruth Huckaback is not married yet; although upon Uncle Reuben’s death she came into all his property; except, indeed, 2000 pounds, which Uncle Ben, in his driest manner, bequeathed “to Sir John Ridd, the worshipful knight, for greasing of the testator’s boots.”  And he left almost a mint of money, not from the mine, but from the shop, and the good use of usury.  For the mine had brought in just what it cost, when the vein of gold ended suddenly; leaving all concerned much older, and some, I fear, much poorer; but no one utterly ruined, as is the case with most of them.  Ruth herself was his true mine, as upon death-bed he found.  I know a man even worthy of her:  and though she is not very young, he loves her, as I love Lorna.  It is my firm conviction, that in the end he will win her; and I do not mean to dance again, except at dear Ruth’s wedding; if the floor be strong enough.

Of Lorna, of my lifelong darling, of my more and more loved wife, I will not talk; for it is not seemly that a man should exalt his pride.  Year by year her beauty grows, with the growth of goodness, kindness, and true happiness—­above all with loving.  For change, she makes a joke of this, and plays with it, and laughs at it; and then, when my slow nature marvels, back she comes to the earnest thing.  And if I wish to pay her out for something very dreadful—­as may happen once or twice, when we become too gladsome—­I bring her to forgotten sadness, and to me for cure of it, by the two words “Lorna Doone.”

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