It is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade

anything, still less of suspecting Susan. Still, he thought it odd; but he thought it odder, when, one market-day, old Isaac Levi said to him:

      “Do you remember the promise you made to the lion-hearted young man, your brother?”

      “Do you ask that to affront me?”

      “You never visit her; and others are not so neglectful.”

      “Who?”

      “Go this evening and you will see.”

      “Yes, I will go, and I will soon see if there is anything in it,” said William, not stopping even to inquire why the old Jew took all this interest in the affair.

      That evening, as Meadows was in the middle of a description of the town of Sydney, Susan started up. “Why, here is William Fielding!” and she ran out and welcomed him in with much cordiality, perhaps with some excess of cordiality.

      William came in and saluted the farmer and Meadows in his dogged way. Meadows was not best pleased, but kept his temper admirably, and, leaving Australia, engaged both the farmers in a conversation on home topics. Susan looked disappointed. Meadows was content with that, and the party separated half an hour sooner than usual.

      The next market evening in strolls William. Meadows again plays the same game. This time Susan could hardly restrain her temper. She did not want to hear about the Grassmere acres, and “The Grove,” and oxen and hogs, but about something that mattered to George.

      But when the next market evening William arrived before Mr. Meadows, she was downright provoked and gave him short answers, which raised his suspicions and made him think he had done wisely in coming. This evening Susan excused herself and went to bed early.

      She was in Farnborough the next market-day, and William met her and said:

      “I'll take a cup of tea with you to-night, Susan, if you are agreeable.”

      “William,” said Susan sharply, “what makes you always come to us on market-day?”

      “I don't know. What makes Mr. Meadows come that day?”

      “Because he passes our house to go to his own, I suppose; but you live but two miles off; you can come any day that you are minded.”

      “Should I be welcome, Susan?”

      “What do you think, Will? Speak your mind; I don't understand you.”

      “Seems to me I was not very welcome last time.”

      “If I thought that I wouldn't come again,” replied Susan, as sharp as a needle. Then instantly repenting a little, she explained: “You are welcome to me, Will, and you know that as well as I do, but I want you to come some other evening, if it is all the same to you.”

      “Why?”

      “Why? because I am dull other evenings, and it would be nice to have a chat with you.”

      “Would it, Susan?”

      “Of course it would; but that evening I have company—and he talks to me of Australia.”

      “Nothing else?” sneered the unlucky William.

      Susan gave him such a look.

      “And that interests me more than anything you can say to me—if you won't be offended,” snapped Susan.

      William bit his lip.

      “Well, then, I won't come this evening, eh! Susan?”

      “No, don't, that is a good soul.”

      “Les femmes sont impitoyables pour ceux qu'elles n'aiment pas.” This is a harsh saying, and of course not pure truth; but there is a deal of truth in it.

      William was proud, and the consciousness of his own love for her made him less able to persist, for he knew she might be so ungenerous as to retort if he angered her too far. So he altered the direction of his battery. He planted himself at the gate of Grassmere Farm, and as Meadows got off his horse requested a few words with him. Meadows ran him over with one lightning glance, and then the whole man was on the defensive. William bluntly opened the affair.

      “You heard me promise to look on Susan as my sister, and keep her as she is for my brother that is far away.”

      “I heard you, Mr. William,” said Meadows with a smile that provoked William as the artful one intended it should.

      “You come here too often, sir.”

      “Too often for who?”

      “Too often for me, too often for George, too often for the girl herself. I won't have George's sweetheart talked about.”

      “You are the first to talk about her; if there's scandal it is of your making.”

      “I won't have it—at a word.”

      Meadows called out, “Miss Merton, will you step here.”

      William was astonished at his audacity; he did not know his man.

      Susan opened the parlor window.

      “What is it, Mr. Meadows?”

      “Will you step here, if you please?” Susan came. :Here is a young man tells me I must not call on your father or you.”

      “I say you must not do it often enough to make her talked of.”

      “Who dares to talk of me?” cried Susan, scarlet.

      “Nobody, Miss Merton. Nobody but the young man himself; and so I told him. Is your father within? Then I'll step in and speak with him anyway.” And the sly Meadows vanished to give Susan an opportunity of quarreling with William while she was hot.

      “I don't know how you came to take such liberties with me,” began Susan, quite pale now with anger.

      “It is for George's sake,” said William doggedly.

      “Did George bid you insult my friends and me? I would not put up with it from George himself, much less from you. I shall write to George and ask him whether he wishes me to be your slave.”

      “Don't ye do so. Don't set my brother against me,” remonstrated William ruefully.

      “The best thing you can do is to go home and mind your farm, and get a sweetheart for yourself, and then you won't trouble your head about me more than you have any business to do.”

      This last cut wounded William to the quick.

      “Good-evening, Susan.”

      “Good-evening.”

      “Won't you shake hands?”

      “It would serve you right if I said no! But I won't make you of so much importance as you want to be. There! And come again as soon as ever you can treat my friends with respect.”

      “I shan't trouble you again for a while,” said William sadly. “Good-by. God bless you, Susan dear.”

      When he was gone the tears came into Susan's eyes, but she was bitterly indignant with him for making a scene about her, which a really modest girl hates. On her reaching the parlor Mr. Meadows was gone, too, and that incensed her still more against William. “Mr. Meadows is affronted, no doubt,” said she, “and of course he would not come here to be talked of; he would not like that any more than I. A man that comes here to us out of pure good nature and nothing else.”

      The next market-day the deep Meadows did not come. Susan missed him and his talk. She had few pleasures, and this was one of them. But the next after he came as usual, and Susan did not conceal her satisfaction. She was too shy and he too wise to allude to William's interference. They both ignored the poor fellow and his honest, clumsy attempt.

      William, discomfited but not convinced, determined to keep his eye upon them both. “I swore it and I'll do it,” said this honest fellow. “But I can't face her tongue; it goes through me like a pitchfork; but as for