"Would you like tea, Uncle?"

"Yes, please…"

"There you are. Mr. Sowerby?"

Dickon growled, "No, thank you, Miss McBurl." He sat squirming in his chair as she poured calmly. Finally, he said, "To blazes wi' it! Paisley, ye can't marry scum like Quimby."

Without looking up, she answered, "I never said I was going to marry him. All I said was I decided to court him."

"It's the same thing!"

"No, it's not. I'll just court him till Uncle can pay off the house. Keep him happy for a while."

Dickon glared at her. "Paisley, it's going to take a long time for your uncle to pay Quimby all the money. By then, he might have pressured you into marriage."

She shook her head. "I won't let him. May I remind you that I can be very forceful when needed."

"He'll pull the same trick again, but instead he'll take away the farm if you don't marry him."

She thought, biting her lip as she sat.

"It won't work, Paisley."

"It has to. I'm afraid that's our only option."

They sat in silence at the small kitchen table that doubled as a "dining-room" table, in the small farmhouse that was at that minute in jeopardy— Burke puffing his pipe steadily; Dickon fuming quietly; Paisley thinking very deeply.

Dickon looked at the thinking Paisley. "Ye know, Quimby is a nasty man. He might… try something w' ye."

"I have no doubt that he will."

He started. "How do ye know that?"

"I saw it in his eyes, in the store, and as he passed me us at the gate. He is indeed a very nasty man."

"There, ye see! Ye can't court a man like that."

She smiled sadly. "As I've said before— I must." She brightened, taking the teapot to the stove to warm it. "But, I do know how to defend myself, if it's a comfort to you. Goodness knows, it's a comfort to me!"

"How could ye defend yourself from a grown man like that?"

"There are ways. I grew up in the highlands, you know, where women have to be tough survive."

Dickon sat up straight. "No, I didn't know that. The highlands, ye say? Grand country up there, I understand."

Paisley could not help gushing about her home. "Oh, yes. It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen. On a clear day, the sun shines down into the stream, dancing about on the pebbles, and the lambs frolic about in the meadow near my home. Not much of a meadow, though. Very thick heath near us, but if you're willing to walk a fair distance, the most gorgeous green grass holds the rare wildflower and a few butterflies. Of course," she added, embarrassed about her outburst. "We don't get very many sunny days. They're a real treasure."

Her uncle took his pipe from his mouth long enough to comment. "How poetic."

Dickon raised an eyebrow above his smiling eyes. "'Gorgeous', eh?"

"Oh, yes, sorry. It's just… I suppose I miss it. It's mostly cloudy though. A bit like here. Silly of me to go on and on like that."

"No, no, it was very nice. Like something out of a fairy book, or one of those nature books."

She gazed out the window, her hand under her chin. "I think that the only real way to enjoy nature is to experience it. You can't get the real thing from a book."

Dickon was amazed at this so seemingly proper young lady, who had the same philosophy he had. Well, at least one he had had when he was younger. And more in-tune with the animals. It startled him to think of it, but he realized that he had been drifting away from the animals— as well as the humans.

Paisley smiled at him, tilting her head. "You're looking very deep. A scone for your thoughts."

"Don't you mean a penny?"

"No, I haven't got a penny. But I do have scones." She produced a basket covered with a cloth.

"I'll take a scone."

"Ah," She stopped him before he reached under the folds. "Thought first."

He smiled wryly, sitting back in his chair. "You're a hard woman. Alright. I was thinking about the animals I know. I haven't exactly been friendly with them lately."

She smiled, but he knew she didn't understand. "Why is that? You seem nice enough."

"Well, my sister says I've been moody. I suppose that could be the reason."

"Animals do seem to sense what mood you're in, don't they? It's almost as if they understood."

She had no idea.

Paisley continued. "We once had a dog— I'm not sure what breed it was; I think it was a mutt— and he always came round to me when I was feeling sad. He'd nuzzle me and try to get me to play with him. I'd end up rolling arou— well, I'd end up feeling happy and playing with him. And when I was already happy, he'd be content to lay his head in my lap, just lying there until the sheep came home."

Dickon grinned at her. "Rolling around, eh?"

She became very interested in the basket of scones. "Well, anyways— oh! Here. The scone for your thoughts. Would you like butter on it?"

"Yes, please."

"Uncle? Scone?"

"Mmm."

Paisley took that to be an affirmative. "So, Mr. Sowerby, what sorts of animals are you acquainted with?"

He shrugged. "Foxes, crows, mice, rabbits, owls, horses…" He began feeling foolish as he listed them, but he was reassured by the sparkle that appeared in Paisley's eyes. "Really?" she asked with great interest. "But don't those animals usually eat each other? Except for the horse, I mean."

"Well, yes, but I try to keep them from making a snack of one another. And, ye never know wi' horses. I once knew a horse that accidently swallowed a dormouse that was crawling about in his hay."

Paisley studied his serious face for a moment before saying, "Mr. Sowerby, you're joking."

"How can ye tell?"

"Your face may say otherwise, but your eyes are laughing at me."

"Well, I'll try to tell them not to be so rude, but that moment when ye almost believed me was very amusing."

"I'm sure it was. Almost as amusing as it was for that poor dormouse."

He stared at her. "I believe ye just made a joke."

"I believe I did."

"Wi' a straight face no less."

Uncle Harold, who had dozed off, awoke with a snort, his pipe almost dropping from his lips. "Eh? What, what?" He looked at Dickon. "'oo are ye? Oh, right, Sourdough. No, that's not right… Sowerby, that's it."

Dickon nodded politely. "Right, sir. I'll just be leaving now. Thank ye for the lovely tea." He rose, along with Paisley, who walked him to the door. She smiled, seeing the expression on his face. "No, Mr. Sowerby. I won't reconsider my decision. What's done is done, and I must make things right."

"Must ye do it this way?"

She nodded assuredly. "Yes, I must."

He sighed. "I can see I can't change you're mind. Well, are ye still coming wi' me to Misselthwaite tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good. I'll meet ye at the end of the lane."

"I'll bring a basket of some food."

"Right. … Well… good day."

"Good day." She watched him leave, and even waited till she saw him get up on the wagon and slap the reins. Paisley went back in the house with a small smile on her face, anticipating the next day eagerly.

xxxXXXxxx

Lucy made her doll walk along in the dirt, giving it directions as if she were a governess talking to her young charge. "Now, then Miss Moppet. We must glide along as if we 'ave wings, or the fancy toffs— pardon— the fancy, rich gentlemen won't think we're angels, will they? No, 'course not. Fancy rich, handsome gents want to marry angels. And we don't want disappoint them, do we?"

She navigated Miss Moppet around a small puddle. "Ladies never walk— or jump— through puddles. We'd get our skirts and shoes all dirty. Ladies' must always be spotless—." She looked up, seeing her eldest brother come rolling in with the wagon. She hadn't even realized the family horse and cart had been taken.

Lucy leapt up, screaming, "MUM! MUM! Dickon's back! He's back, Mum!" She raced to the house, only to have to go back and rescue Miss Moppet from being trampled by the horse's hooves. She resumed her run once the doll was safely in her arms, still yelling with her small, yet powerful lungs.

"Mum, he's back! He stole the horse! AND the cart! He's back now! Mum! MUM! MU—." She ran right into her mother, becoming enveloped in the huge white apron covering her mother's skirt.

Mrs. Sowerby patted her head tenderly. "Now then, what's all the fuss about? Goodness, Lucy, you're going to bring all the neighbors running, screaming bloody murder like that." She glanced up at Dickon, who was unhitching the horse in the small barn, as if everything was normal. "Hello, Dickon, dear. Staying for supper? My, I didn't think we'd see ye back until later, seeing as ye took that pretty girl home."

He stared at her curiously, walking over to hug his mother. "And how do ye know about that, then?"

"Oh, Charlotte saw ye ride out o' the village."

He shook his head. Charlotte, another of his younger sisters, seemed to know anything and everything that was going on. His mother often said she was like a small bird in a tree— watching and listening unseen— except that, unlike little birds, Charlotte was able to tell all that she had seen and heard. And she almost always did.

"Aye, mum. I'm staying for supper."

"Good. You can help me by setting the table."

He laughed, hugging her again, bending over slightly, as he had become taller than her. "And I suppose ye'd like me to bake some bread too, to go with supper, eh?"

"No, I've already done that. But ye can take it out of the oven. I've got me hands full with this stew."

Dickon followed her inside, where he was greeted by his siblings loudly.

"'Allo, Dickon!"

"Finally comin' round here again, are ye?"

"Look, look! The hermit's come out of 'is 'ole!"

"Did ye bring me somefing, Dickon?"

"Dickon, brother dearest. Who was that young woman ye were with earlier?"

The last question was from Charlotte, who was slightly older than the young 'uns, but still not quite old enough yet to be considered in her teens. She thought herself quite the lady, though, and persisted in acting as "mature" as she possibly could. In Dickon's opinion, she acted about as mature as a three year-old.

He tweaked her nose, knowing how much she hated the gesture. "Never ye mind, Miss Nosy. What were ye doing in the village anyways?"

She rubbed the tender spot, shrugging innocently. "Just walking about."

"More like just snooping about. Mark my words, Lottie: someday that nose of yours is going to get ye into trouble."

She scowled at him. "My name is Charlotte. I'm too old for 'Lottie' anymore."

"You're not too old to pout, though, I see."

Charlotte stamped her foot, retreating into the kitchen, and Dickon managed to dodge the question about Paisley.

Mrs. Sowerby poked her head out of the kitchen. "It's so good to have ye home, Dickon."

He glanced about at the mess of children, grinning. "It's good to be home, mum."