"I wish to Heaven somebody would marry her!--I don't care who. She's
always up to some confounded mischief."
"No, no, no," Roscorla said: "it's Wenna he means to marry."
"Why, you were to have married Wenna?"
"Yes, but--"
"Then why didn't you? So she's run away, has she?" George Rosewarne
grinned: he saw how the matter lay.
"This is Mabyn's work, I know," said he as he put his foot in the
stirrup and sprang into the saddle. "You'd better go home, Roscorla.
Don't you say a word to anybody. You don't want the girl made a fool
of all through the place."
So George Rosewarne set out to bring back his daughters; not
galloping, as an anxious parent might, but going ahead with a long,
steady-going trot, which he knew would soon tell on Mrs. Trelyon's
over-fed and under-exercised horses.
"If they mean Plymouth," he was thinking, "as is most likely from
their taking the high-road, he'll give it them gently at first. And so
that young man wants to marry our Wenna? 'Twould be a fine match for
her; and yet she's worth all the money he's got--she's worth it every
farthing.
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