The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC version of Cranford, which was adapted from Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no claim to or affiliation with the source material.

Many thanks to all the wonderfully faithful readers of this story, especially those of you who have taken the time to post reviews and offer other feedback. Your comments and support mean a great deal.

Extra points to all Americans (and others) who can find yet another of my political in-jokes below...

The title of this chapter was inspired by "The Canticle of the Turning" (lyrics by Rory Cooney and the tune from the old Irish song "The Star of the County Down"), which I have been playing every so often as I've been writing and rewriting.

Chapter 33: The Turning

"All trades and professions?" said Frank. "Oh, surely not." He had not lost his smile, not entirely, but his pale eyes had gone wide with astonishment.

"Why ever not?" said Mrs. Carter, dimpling at him. "Do not women even now labor in various fields of endeavor? Surely they might accomplish a good deal more, provided they receive suitable education."

At that Frank blushed all the way to his collar. "Of course, Mrs. Carter," he said. "It is only that a wife and mother forms the very heart of a family, and a woman's natural inclination is to the care of a home and children."

"That occupation alone?" said Mrs. Carter, her tone serious enough, for all that there was still a little smile on her lips.

"I intend no slight against your sex, Mrs. Carter," said Frank sincerely. "Rather the reverse, for we all of us owe our upbringing -- indeed, life itself -- to women."

"And the preservation of life," said Mary. "By nursing, that is, Dr. Harrison."

Frank smiled warmly back at her. "Of course. Women perform most noble service in that regard."

In that moment Sophy believed she saw Dr. Marshland wink at Mary. Oh, surely he would not dare, not in front of Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Morgan! But perhaps she had only imagined it.

She recovered herself and turned to her husband. "I dare say you might think of teaching as well, Frank.

"My mother taught me my letters and sums," she explained to the company. "And in time I was responsible for my own brother's lessons."

Frank smiled, a bit sadly. "So I recall," he said. "Yes, I must own that women also excel at teaching." A little pause ensued before he added, "But I should think, my love, that you could scarcely imagine a woman wishing to take orders, for example, and perform your father's duties."

"Perhaps not," said Sophy, smiling at the image. "Though there was Deborah, the prophetess and judge."

"Deborah?" echoed Frank, uncomprehending.

"In the Scriptures," prompted Sophy. In one regard, at least, her husband's education was incomplete; he knew neither the catechism nor the Bible.

"'Deborah, the prophetess and judge,'" repeated Mary, looking across at her friend, and smiling. "That is most apt."

"Indeed it is," said Dr. Morgan, with a deep chuckle.

Mrs. Carter was fairly glowing with another smile, of contentment or perhaps pride, when her husband all at once spoke up. "I do not doubt that the Deborah of the Bible served God most faithfully," said Mr. Carter crisply. "But nowadays the office of a judge belongs quite rightly to a man."

"'Rightly,' Edward?" said Mrs. Carter. "Surely you do not believe women's abilities so greatly altered since the time of Deborah that they lack the intelligence to serve in her capacity."

"It was not my intention to disparage women's natural abilities, nor their intelligence," said Mr. Carter. "It is only that dispensing justice requires uncommon resolve, and a woman should prove too soft-hearted."

"But justice is tempered by mercy, Edward, and a man and woman may prove equally just, and equally merciful," said Mrs. Carter with a lift of her eyebrows.

"And I would submit, Mr. Carter," said Dr. Morgan, chuckling once more, "that ladies can prove most exacting judges.

"Present company excepted, of course," he added, nodding towards Sophy.

"I have seen evidence that a woman may prove very just indeed," said Mr. Carter. "As well as merciful."

"I dare say that the ladies here present are as fair-minded as anyone I know," put in Dr. Marshland, with his sly grin. "Though a lady's wit can be fully as sharp as any man's -- sharper, I think," he added, glancing at Mrs. Carter, whom he plainly admired, and toward Mary, who returned his smile, then lowered her gaze demurely.

"It seems we are quite outnumbered here, Mr. Carter," said Frank to his host.

"This is not a competition, Dr. Harrison," said Mrs. Morgan, in her quiet way. "And I for one am content simply to make a home for my husband, and defer to his judgment in all other things.

"I shall assist him in his work, of course, and most willingly," she continued. "But I should not like to have the burdens of his profession myself. I cannot speak for the other ladies, though," she added.

"Pray do not misunderstand me," said Mrs. Carter, in her low, rich voice. "I am not talking of usurping man's position, merely sharing in it."

And yet somehow that gentle pronouncement, thought Sophy, seemed to shock Frank quite as much as if Mrs. Carter had declared men unfit to practice any profession at all.

It had been a modest but altogether delightful supper, and a pleasant evening. Frank had enjoyed the conversation, though he'd been astonished at Mrs. Carter's sentiments, as well as her lively engagement of all the company in debate and discussion. Jack of course had been greatly entertained by the whole exercise, indeed had encouraged Mrs. Carter in her efforts, and Frank had to wonder what her good, grave husband made of it all. Not that he had any doubts about the latter's happiness; Mr. Carter had displayed abundant good humor this evening, and was indeed much altered from what he had been but a year ago.

Besides, a man could only benefit from the society of such a well-bred, intelligent woman. Frank had been by far the youngest husband present but the longest married, and felt himself quite the expert in matters matrimonial these days.

Of course by the time he'd received news that the manager of the Hanbury estate was to wed the milliner, he'd also heard hints of the gossip surrounding the bride. But Frank had credited none of it, given all the foolishness that was put about, even concerning the wholly blameless, perhaps especially the wholly blameless!

And he had decided he quite liked Mrs. Carter, for all that she'd expressed some rather daring opinions this evening. At least she hadn't shocked Sophy. Indeed Mrs. Carter had been extraordinarily solicitous of Sophy's feelings, and gently encouraged her to play as large a part as any of them in the conversation.

Dear Sophy! She had playfully warned Frank that she should have no conversation at all that evening, and he knew, despite her light tone, that she was in earnest.

He also knew she need not have worried. Dr. Morgan always treated her with the tender regard he might have shown a daughter, and of course Miss Smith was all that an affectionate and loyal friend might be. As for the rest of them, Frank had seen that they were every bit as charmed by Sophy as they might be, whether she was listening attentively or speaking herself.

That she should have no conversation! Such a thought.

Still, Frank had been content enough when it came time for them to bid their host and hostess farewell. He was not so long married that he should prefer anywhere else to his own little house, or any other occupation to a happy hour spent in Sophy's company.

Surely marriage was an excellent thing for a man, thought Dr. Morgan. Frank had more or less sealed the townspeople's good opinion of him by his union with the rector's daughter, and now Dr. Marshland had followed his example and made an offer to Miss Smith. Such a steady, sensible girl ought to temper the Irishman's too free and easy manners, his mischievous ways. Indeed he was already uncommonly improved, though he had shown a hint of his old tricks tonight, encouraging Mrs. Carter in this talk of education for ladies.

Perhaps that was not a bad thing in itself, though, considering their host. Mr. Carter was known as an advocate of schooling for the masses, and if his lady had embraced such notions with untempered enthusiasm, why, her husband's influence should keep her behavior in check, even while her spirits lifted his.

Yes, it was a very good thing for a man to have a helpmeet to share in his joys and sorrows. And if she was clever to the bargain, that was all to the good. Then should she understand her husband's profession the better, and perform her own duties more adroitly.

Sophy Harrison ought to be the proof of that. For all the burdens she had assumed at such a young age, she had also taken every opportunity to improve her mind, and would no doubt prove a better mother for it, when it pleased God to bless her and Frank with children of their own.

Still, Dr. Morgan very much doubted that education ought to fit women for anything beyond looking after a husband, home, and children, and perhaps keeping accounts, or teaching. Certainly he could not imagine a woman in his own profession, though he did respect an honest and capable midwife, and a competent nurse.

No, wives ought properly to support their husbands in their labors. Isobel certainly knew the wisdom of that, and was even content to live in his shadow.

Truth to tell, though, he'd not cast much of a shadow of late, and not only because he was no longer the only physician in the community. For a good many years he had known that in any company he was likely to prove the cleverest man present -- excepting the rector, of course -- as well as the voice of authority. But this evening Frank and Dr. Marshland had taken up a discussion of recent medical discoveries and surgical techniques, talking as freely as they might while paying due deference to the women's tender sensibilities, and he had been unable to contribute any original remarks himself.

Moreover the sight of two fellow physicians in their prime, with their respective ladies at their sides, reminded him as well of how greatly he'd come to dislike the looking-glass of late, and the sight of his own thinning hair.

It was not that he needed to make a coxcomb of himself. He was a married man, after all, and the luckiest fellow in the world for having wooed and won his Isobel. Surely the day ought to be long past when he thought to receive admiring glances. And yet he had long flattered himself that his manners and person were pleasing enough for a man of his age, and that the ladies of Cranford looked on him favorably, and not only owing to his profession.

He dared not speak a word of this to Isobel, lest she think the worse of him. She was all tenderness, of course, yet so shy in her affections that he sometimes worried that she found his society very dull indeed, and was too kind to make complaint.

"I believe we have consumed all the fruit, my love."

"All of it?" Edward, in the midst of extinguishing a candle, finished his task and looked towards his wife. "Then it is well that you thought to serve that instead of richer fare."

"It has been very warm of late, and I thought fruit should prove refreshing."

"Our guests evidently shared your opinion." Edward put out another candle. "As for conversation, I do not think we left anything untouched there, either."

"Indeed we did not!" said Laurie. "I dare say we discussed travel by every means possible, from railway to donkey cart."

Her husband smiled at her in the remaining candlelight. "Besides which we talked of the great cities, and of history itself."

"And of Holy Scripture and popular novels both," added Laurie. "And education."

"But most particularly the education of ladies."

"Yes, Edward, of ladies. How could it be otherwise?

"And of course, as one would expect in the presence of three physicians, medical knowledge, most especially discoveries concerning the eye."

"Hm. That last was Dr. Marshland's doing," said Edward, extinguishing yet another precious candle. "And he alone had enthusiasm for the subject."

"Still, it was an extremely lively discussion, and Dr. Marshland and Dr. Harrison did not stray too far afield from everyone else."

"If they did not, it was your doing," said Edward with another little smile. "You kept them well in check."

"I did not wish the ladies to feel excluded from the conversation."

"No one was excluded," said Edward kindly. "And the talk was pleasanter, and of course a good deal more intelligent, than one often hears at parties."

"Then perhaps in your eyes I stand acquitted," said Laurie demurely.

"Of what?"

"Of the charge that I lack all appetite for stimulating intercourse."

Edward fairly snorted. "Who could make such a foolish pronouncement?"

Laurie felt a smile forming on her lips. She bent to collect several stray glasses before speaking again.

"Still, I hope that Dr. Harrison was not too severely shocked by my opinions," she continued. "And that he took no offense when I engaged him as well as you in debate."

"You need not worry about me, my love; I have long been acquainted with your views," said Edward. "As for Dr. Harrison, he is young, and survived the discussion unbruised."

"But as Mrs. Morgan observed, this is not a competition," said Laurie, eyebrows raised.

"No," said Edward. "It is not. But still you will not take it amiss if I claim a prize."

"A prize?" She looked again at his face in the candle's glow -- his skin burnished by the light, and his eyes gleaming like gemstones, and his jaw and brow set off by intriguing shadows. The expression was serious, but his tone had suggested --

"Or perhaps a forfeit," he added. "That is, depending on your views."

"I should think, Edward, that you know my views well enough by now, indeed completely."

"Completely?"

"In one respect, at least." She spoke softly, barely above a whisper, yet with a delicate emphasis. "And if I understand your meaning, I should not regard what you are asking as any manner of forfeit."

At that he smiled again. "Then we understand each other very well indeed." He took the last of the glowing candles and carefully handed it to her, and she shielded the flame as she turned to lead him him through the darkness towards the stairs.

It really was not quite a day for walking. The rain had been such that the ground was still very moist and soft, and the grass still wet. Yet the gardens were lovely, and the woods as well. She loved the hushed stillness of it all, as though the woods and fields had been made a chapel.

Summer, not spring, was truly when the whole earth awakened -- each flower opening its petals, every tree carrying its ripening fruit. She knew that if she went to the rectory garden, she should see the cherry tree heavy with its bounty, and at the Hanbury orchards there should be the promise of apples and pears -- not now, of course, but soon.

A fruitful season. Surely it would be so this year. Surely the months to come should fulfill that promise.

Unconsciously she folded her arms about herself, as though to protect and embrace what was within.

Waiting. He hadn't time to be waiting.

"Come on now. Don't dawdle."

Job Gregson, little James in his arms, cast a look back at his daughters and second-youngest son. It was always so when they came to the village on market day. They marched about in a line, very like a duck with her ducklings, with him at the front and the little children trailing behind. There were fewer of them now, of course, with Malachi working alongside Harry in the cowshed, but it was still a lot of trouble to take the others with him, and Sarah was very nearly no help at all.

Sarah, of course, had wanted to dawdle. She needed more time to finish her shopping, she said, and should take even longer if she'd the children gathered about her, teasing her for sweets and suchlike. They must go with Job to the ironmonger, and then she would meet them all later at the churchyard.

It was a pity that Harry was not there with them -- the little girls and boys knew they must mind him, for all that he was gentle -- but that could not be helped. He and Malachi were as yet at their chores in the cowshed.

Malachi had of course blubbered when Job told him he was old enough now to earn a wage of his own, and must do so in such a place. The boy wanted to be out of doors, and he didn't like cows. Job told him to leave off his crying. It was good fortune itself that Lady Ludlow was willing to take him on, and Harry would be at his side, or nearly. He'd see to it Malachi was a good boy and did his work. Job could always be sure of Harry.

The same could not be said for Sarah. Job had arrived at the agreed-upon meeting place, and there was no sign of the girl. The children were too restless for him to truly think on where he was -- here at the churchyard, where his Bella lay -- and why. If only Sarah would come, he'd have a chance to stop quietly by himself for a bit, though not for long. He'd duties to attend to back at Hanbury this evening, and --

Just then a man in black clothes approached them.

"Mr. Gregson, is it not?"

It was the rector himself. The man was smiling but Job felt at once he was being watched, as if by the constable or the magistrate, and thought to remove his hat.

"Sir."

"I am Reverend Hutton, Mr. Gregson. I believe I know your eldest son," he said, still smiling as he looked at the children gathered around Job.

"Harry?"

"Yes. He read the Psalm at Mr. Carter's wedding. He did very well."

"I thought as much."

For a moment the rector said nothing more, as he made a study of the ground, and Job of his boots.

"Mr. Gregson, I wondered if I might speak a word with you about your son Harry."

"What's he done?"

At that the man smiled again and very nearly chuckled. "Harry has done nothing wrong. He's a fine boy, Mr. Gregson, a very fine boy."

"Aye. He's a good lad."

"Might we walk together for a few moments' discussion?" asked Reverend Hutton. "My daughters are out in the garden," he added, nodding towards the grounds of the rectory. "Your children might rest there while we have our conversation."

Job had never truly seen the rectory garden, but if he'd not known he was waking, he should have thought himself in a dream, or perhaps Paradise itself. There were roses of different colors, there were flowers he could not name, and there were trees thickly hung with ripe cherries.

Beneath the trees were two girls, a little dark one and a taller one with golden hair. The rector walked over to the two and Job could hear him say, "Lizzie, my dear." The rest of the words were lost to Job, but both girls looked towards him and the children, and he could well guess what they might be thinking.

After a moment, the rector came back. "Your children can play here while we talk. My daughters will see they come to no harm."

Jemima was looking up at the stranger, taking in his black clothes, his stern face. She turned her eyes back to her father, who said, "It's all right. But mind you look after David and James." He set down his youngest son, and James toddled off between his two sisters, holding each by the hand. David was already running across the grass; he'd seen a bird or a butterfly or some such thing, and wanted to chase it.

Reverend Hutton called out once more to his girls. "Lizzie, Helen, mind that the children don't leave the garden."

He turned to Job. "Now then, let us walk."

He must go home at once. It wasn't that the rector had so much as said a cross word to him -- it would have been better if he had -- but that he'd thought to talk to him of Harry at all. Job began to wonder if Carter had put him up to it. Carter had no son of his own, but then neither did the rector. His little lad was dead almost two years, and lay beneath the sod but a few steps from Bella.

And the rector had no wife of his own either, Job recalled. Well, then -- no wife, no son. But then why should the man trouble Job about Harry, and putting him in school?

Oh, he ought not to have come. There was nothing but mischief here, in this place where a sad-faced man with no wife or son of his own should tell him what he was to do with his Harry.

Job returned to the spot where he'd stood before, and saw them then, saw his children. His daughters were crouched beneath a tree, gathering cherries in their skirts, and David was seated on the ground, putting fruit into his mouth, and grimacing as his little teeth met every stone.

The rector's two daughters – one dark, one fair – were jostling the branches of the tree with a rake, and laughing and squealing as the ripe cherries came tumbling down upon them and upon Job's children.

"Come on then, you lot," said Job to his girls and to David. Jemima stood up, careful not to drop the cherries she'd gathered, and the little dark girl came up to her. "You shall have a basket," she said to Jemima. As she turned to fetch it her eyes fell upon Job.

She looked at him very much as she might have looked upon a robber.

"Come on, then!" he said to Keziah, who took David by the hand. "Where's James?" asked Job, turning once more to the golden-haired Hutton girl.

She made no reply but nodded towards the steps of the rectory. There sat a servant, a thin woman in apron and cap. She was picking through a basket of cherries, a basin at her side, and James was walking towards her on his little legs, clutching a cherry or two in his fist. He dropped the fruit in the basket, and she smiled at him as though he'd given her the finest of gifts.

In a few strides Job had reached the woman. "That's my son," he said, more harshly than he meant to.

The woman flinched as though he'd struck her with his hand. "Yes," she said, barely looking up. Her smile had gone. "He'll not come to any harm here, sir."

"No," said Job, more softly now.

"And he's a grand little boy."

"But I must take him home." He lifted James in his arms, then turned to his other children. "Now, what's become of Sarah?"

He was on the verge of an oath when he remembered where he was.

Every task seemed to require greater effort these days -- even falling asleep. Jessie Gordon pushed herself upright in bed and felt the slightest hint of a breeze coming from the window. Oh, that was heavenly. It had been such an uncommonly warm day, and the lack of air in the house was stifling. Still she had retired early, drowsy from the heat and easily tired due to her condition, only to find that sleep would not come.

Now she eased herself off the bed, her feet onto the floor, and was suddenly aware of voices issuing forth from the open window below hers.

Masculine voices -- her father's and another man's. She held perfectly still and listened.

"Of course under the circumstances, Captain, I must approach you with the frank acknowledgment that it is a great deal that I ask of --"

The remaining words were muffled, yet Jessie knew the voice at once.

"But you are among the company's directors, Sir Charles. Can you not speak in my stead, and allow me --"

Again, the last part of the sentence was lost to her, as was Sir Charles Maulver's reply.

There was no mistaking the next words, though.

"Indeed I cannot, sir. I cannot! It would be coldness itself to leave my Jessie at such a time."

The voices rose and fell. The words drifted upwards -- gratitude, position, circumstances, promises, but a few days.

But a few days. Only a few.

At the last she was able to hear a pronouncement from Sir Charles that seemed very nearly to bring her beating heart to a stop.

"Of course I will speak in your stead, as you wish. But I would be remiss, Captain, if I did not remind you that it is not wholly my decision. If they should choose to install another man, why, I shall speak against it, and most vehemently. But I cannot promise that my voice alone will be enough to secure your position."

At that she was too distracted to hear her father's reply. She sank again upon the bed and clutched at the linens. Her mind was reeling, and only the sound of the door shutting below stairs roused her from the most painful imaginings.

But the closing of the door did its work. She knew what she must do.

The question was only how to approach her father without wounding his pride, or revealing what she had heard of his interview with Sir Charles.

It had been another heavenly June day, and Mary thought it would be a great pity to go home just yet.

She and Sophy had been walking beneath the shade of the trees, along the brook, and out to the rectory, where they found the garden at its loveliest and the cherries glistening among the leaves in the trees. They each of them had filled a little basket and then for a time sat upon the ground, very much as Helen or Lizzie might have done. But they had quite grown-up concerns, she and Sophy, and talked of Frank, and of Jack, and of all that had changed within a year.

Yet they did not speak of the time when Mary must leave Cranford, and no longer might they enjoy an afternoon such as this, when they seemed as yet close to girlhood, if only briefly.

At length the hour grew late, and Sophy confessed herself a little tired and desirous of a rest before seeing to Frank's supper, and so Mary had parted from her at her doorstep and embarked upon a second walk beside the brook.

The shade proved enticingly cool, and Mary seated herself at waterside, the basket of cherries from the rectory set down beside her. The gurgle of the waters was pleasantly distracting, and all at once she felt oddly drowsy. Indeed she might have contentedly drifted off to sleep then and there.

But she had had such dreams of late. Only the night before she had gone to sleep and dreamed that Miss Deborah Jenkyns was rector of the church at Cranford, and no one, not even Dr. Harrison, made complaint when she stood before them at matins. On waking Mary had not quite known whether to laugh or to cry, or to provide an account to Miss Matty.

Now, in her half-waking state, she heard the soft thud of hooves. On looking up she saw Jack riding along the path and knew at once she must be dreaming. He was not to come today. Surely she was asleep.

But the rider drew near, stopped, and dismounted.

She'd always loved the sound of the water, even enjoyed watching it tumbling gently over the rocks, and now she kept her eyes fixed upon the stream as Jack spoke. She sought to listen but felt unequal to grasping all he was saying now, and clung only to the promise he had given her:

It should only be a few months. Only a few months.

It was good fortune itself, Jack told her, that he'd a Mentor of his own, an honorable man and a fine physician, a fellow he trusted as he would his own father. After Jack had left Guy's the two of them had kept up a lively correspondence, always writing of the cases they'd seen, the conditions they'd treated, the conundrums they'd not yet resolved.

And now he meant to make something of all those studies, all those years of work, and was writing a medical book of his own. Jack should assist him with it, seeing to the drawings and a good deal more. Why, it was beyond all their fondest hopes.

It would mean going away for a time, first to Glasgow, of course, then London as well, and perhaps even to the continent, that they might see for themselves the treatments of which they'd only heard report.

"It sounds very much an adventure," said Mary softly, keeping her eyes on the waters. She could sense Jack was looking at her but did not turn to face him.

"For all that it sounds grand, Mary, it'll be long hours, hard work, even dull at times!" She felt him take her hand. "And you'll not be at my side."

She turned to look into his face. "But can you not accomplish all this in Manchester?"

He smiled at that, almost as though she had posed the innocent question of a child. "If only it were that simple. There's medical men and books scattered abroad, Mary, and patients outside Manchester to be seen as well, and cases to be studied, and operations and treatments to be observed. I'll be a better physician for seeing it all for myself."

She looked out again at the water. Only a few months. The images of the brook, the trees, the basket blurred before her eyes.

"Mary. Mary, look at me." She turned her face but not her eyes to him, and almost resisted when he put a hand beneath her chin and tilted it upwards. For a moment she thought he was about to kiss her, but he only spoke to her then, in a voice as gentle as ever she'd heard.

"I'd not wanted to make you cry." Then, yet more softly but hesitantly: "And I'll not go if you ask me to stay."

"I could not bear to disappoint you so." Even at this moment she knew she had found the truest words she'd ever spoken to him, and perhaps the ones, too, that he needed most to hear. And yet though he smiled at her, she thought there was something of regret in his eyes, as though he knew what those words had cost her.

"You understand what this means."

"I know what it means to you, Jack. Such an opportunity may not present itself again."

"Mary, it means a great deal for both of us. It'll be the making of me." He gave her his accustomed smile. "You'd not want to marry a good-for-nothing now, would you?"

"Jack!" She gave him a look of mock reproach but then said, quite in earnest, "I hope my father has not been scolding you about your prospects."

"He's done no such thing. But if I do this, I can better make my way in the world, and look after you as you deserve."

"As I deserve? Jack, don't tease me."

"I'm fond of teasing you," he said, with a smile that said as much. "And I'll miss it so."

At that she turned her head again, that he might not see her tears.

"Ah, Mary." He spoke her name very softly. "I wish we were married already, that you might go with me."

"You know that is impossible, Jack, and I should distract you from your work."

At that he actually chuckled. "You might."

"Moreover the university and your benefactor will not have counted on the expense."

Jack clasped her hand again. "It was just a dream," he said, almost lightly, looking away. He turned back to her with his old smile. "But a fellow can dream, can't he?"

"Indeed he can," said Mary, able to return the smile.

"He must," said Jack, all at once serious. "If he's waiting for you to wed him."

"Jack, I am the one who will be waiting!" she said, recovering some of her spirit. "You will have a great deal to engage you, and quite forget us all."

"I'll not do that. Besides," he added, the mischief back in his eyes, "you're the one who will be amid the mad social whirl that is Cranford."

She smiled at him again, and with a little sigh said, "Yes, Jack, I shall be here in Cranford, making good use of my time and looking after Martha's baby and tying up preserves with Miss Matty, and writing letters to you." She was smiling still, and he back at her, as he raised his gentle physician's hands to brush away the last of her tears.

It had been such an uncommonly warm day, Miss Pole thought, and a stroll past the brook must prove very refreshing. One craved shade at such times, especially since there seemed to be but little breeze in the village these days.

Of course one might never embark on a plan without discovering that another had had much the same notion, and indeed hastened to carry it out while one was still tying on one's bonnet. But that could not be helped, and one must resign oneself to company in nearly every corner of a village this size.

Which is not to say that she was glad of the sight of a young man and woman seated together at waterside, propriety evidently counting for little these days, given the want of distance between the two of them.

But another, more remarkable surprise awaited Miss Pole.

The young woman was Miss Smith, and the young man Dr. Marshland.

As she drew nearer she saw that Miss Smith was in great distress, indeed in tears, and for a moment Miss Pole contemplated offering assistance. But it was also evident that Dr. Marshland was attending to her, though hardly in his professional capacity, and Miss Pole suspected very much that a solicitous inquiry regarding Miss Smith's health should be most unwelcome at this moment.

For all that, though, it was dreadfully shocking that Miss Smith would permit even her future husband such liberties when they were both seated by the brook and almost anyone might pass by and observe them, especially when the banns had not as yet been read.

Some days later Mary was assisting Miss Matty at tying up preserves when Martha walked into the kitchen.

"There's a letter come for you, Miss Smith," said Martha, displaying the prize.

"From Dr. Marshland?" said Miss Matty brightly, with a glance and a smile at Mary.

"I don't think it's his hand," said Martha, studying the envelope, and frowning. "But it is very blotted."

At that Miss Matty directed a reproachful look at Martha as Mary, in the midst of wiping her hands, tilted her head to look at the letter. "That is surely Papa's writing, though by no means as tidy as usual."

"Shall I leave it here, then, Miss Smith?" said Martha, propping the envelope up by the window. "It'll come to no harm."

"Yes, thank you, Martha," said Mary, bending to her task again as Martha set about drying crockery.

"Do you not wish to read it at once, Mary, dear?" asked Miss Matty.

"Let us finish our work. Then shall I have the leisure to enjoy Papa's letter," said Mary, smiling at her friend. Miss Matty was much relieved to see the young woman's spirits recovered, or seemingly so. Mary had made a touching effort to conceal her tears after Dr. Marshland had set out for Glasgow, but Matty not had been deceived by her brisk cheerfulness in the days that followed. She provided what comfort she might, and as well had resolved to occupy, even divert Mary until such time as her young man returned home again. After all, it should be but a few months --

"Matilda." Peter had appeared suddenly in the doorway. "I own I do not know what this is about, but a most curious thing has occurred."

"What is it, Peter?"

"Did anyone in the household summon the fly?"

Without a word Mary was across the room and had the letter in her hands. She tore it open and read it as they all stood -- Miss Matty, Peter, and Martha -- watching her expression.

"It is indeed from Papa."

"Oh, Mary, dear, he's not ill, is he?" said Matty tenderly.

"I do not know. But he says I must return to Manchester, and at once."

Had it been possible for Martha Hearne to have divided herself into two women, she might well have attempted it, for all the running up and down she did as they prepared to send Mary off in the fly. Mr. Smith had said precious little in his letter, only that he requested that Mary return home directly, and prepare to remain there for some time.

Mary had been anxious enough on his account, and could not help but express her worries aloud as they made ready.

"He does not say why he wants me home. Yet I know he has often been vexed by pains, and I should not like to think that he has learned -- that he has learned that he is truly ill."

"Mary, dear, pray do not distress yourself by speculating." said Miss Matty, laying a hand on her friend's shoulder. "The letter came from your father himself. Surely he must be well."

"I am sorry, Miss Matty," said Mary, mastering the tremor in her voice. "It is only that Papa is so mindful of his obligations, and frequently ignores his own discomfort. I fear he would defer speaking to a doctor until it is quite serious."

"You shall see him soon enough," said Miss Matty gently, taking Mary into an embrace, which she returned wholeheartedly.

"Is all in readiness?" called Peter from the hallway.

"Very nearly," said Miss Matty. "I fear we must make haste," she said to Mary.

"Yes."

"Wherever has Martha gone?" said Miss Matty, an uncharacteristic note of vexation in her voice. She fetched Peter into the room, that he might carry Mary's things downstairs, and as they all descended they heard a knocking at the door.

Jessie Gordon had come from her house across the way. "I wanted to see you before you went to Manchester."

"Oh, Jessie." Mary, overcome once more, embraced her gently. "Do not worry. I shall return as soon as possible."

Jessie drew back, smiling. "I am not worried about anything."

"Don't go just yet, Miss Smith!"

Martha was coming towards the house at a run. "I've sent word to Mrs. Harrison. She'll want to say goodbye and all."

Miss Matty turned to Peter and Mary. "Surely we can delay a moment more."

"At least long enough to make ready," said Peter, beckoning to the driver. The two of them took some time settling Miss Smith's belongings, and Peter was about to hand Mary into the fly when a cry startled them all.

"Mary!"

Sophy Harrison fairly ran down the street and directly into Mary's embrace. Neither could speak for a moment, but as they drew apart, Sophy took Mary's hands in both of hers. "I will write to you."

"And I you."

"Godspeed, Mary."

And with a final leave-taking of Miss Matty, Mr. Jenkyns and Mrs. Gordon, and even a tender handclasp with a tearful Martha, Mary Smith left Cranford as precipitately as she had entered it.

To be continued...