On many a Saturday night she raided, single-handed, the Plough Inn and
drove forth the sheepish revellers, personally conducting them to their
homes and wives.

They respected her in Cornbridge as the reigning sovereign of her small
estate, and none did she rule more autocratically and completely than
her little nineteen-year-old niece Marjorie.

A pretty, timid, little maid was Marjorie, with soft yellow hair, a
sweet oval face, with large pathetic blue eyes and a timid, uncertain
little rosebud of a mouth.

"A rare sweet maid her be," they said of her in the village, "but
terribul tim'rous, and I lay her ladyship du give she a rare time of
it...." Which was true.

"Don't talk to me, miss!" her ladyship said to the silent girl. "I know
what is best for you; and I know, too, what you don't think I know--ha,
ha!" Her ladyship laughed terribly. "I know that you have been meeting
that worthless young scamp, Tom Arundel!"

"Oh, aunt, he is not worthless--"

"Financially he isn't worth a sou--and that's what I mean, and don't
interrupt. I am your guardian, you are entirely in my charge, and until
you arrive at the age of twenty-five I can withhold your fortune from
you if you marry in opposition to me and my wishes. But you won't--you
won't do anything of the kind. You will marry the man I select for you,
the man I have already selected--what did you say, miss?