light shined crooked and telled one man one way and another different. It mid be a' right as Roland should wait for's father's leave, but if it's as they says at Youlcliffe, I tak' it he should mind and be clean off wi' thee, dearie, afore he's on wi' another lass. That's what I should say to German an he were so minded."

She smiled sorrowfully at the boy, who followed them into their retreat and sat down on the floor near them, with his back against the wall and his arms round his knees. He did not add much, however, to the enlivening of the company, for he fell asleep almost immediately. The women went on talking in a low voice.

"And how iver am I to know what he's thinkin' of now my aunt's dead as could ha' axed me down to Youlcliffe? I've got such an ache in my heart wi' niver hearin' a word," said the poor girl, leaning her head against Lydia, who put down her stocking and stroked her shining hair in silence, as she revolved all sorts of combinations for their meeting in her head.

"And then it's so far for him to get here," Cassie went on. "It's like as if I were the cock upo' th' top o' Youlcliffe steeple. I mid a'most as well be there or 'i th' moon for seein' or hearin' owt about any one."

"Sure thy uncle will be main glad to have thee, my darlin', afore long; and thy father canna well refuse him, and them so kind about thy portion. We'll send in German happen in a bit to see what's stirrin'."

The lad woke up suddenly at the sound of his name.

"I think as I'd be a'most as well abed. I'm as weary wi' my out as if I'd been shearing a' day. I mun go back to father, though. I havena telled him yet what uncle Nathan bid me. I'd mebbe best do it at oncst now, though he's uncommon queer to-night. I canna think what's took him. It mun be summat as squire have a said."

The old man sat alone in the kitchen in sullen, moody misery. It was a pathetic sight, all the more because his isolation in his distress (whatever it might be) was the doing of his own temper. Man seems to think it absolves him from the burden of his pity to his fellow, to say it was his own fault, as if it did not aggravate the wretchedness tenfold.

German stood at the door looking in at the dismal picture. He was much afraid of rousing the sleeping lion, but it was better to have it over; there was nothing to be gained by delay, and at last he walked straight up to his father, and delivered Nathan's message in the fewest possible words. To his surprise, Ashford made no observation whatever upon it. He simply lifted up his bloodshot eyes and great overhanging eyebrows and fixed them on his son. "Say that again, lad," he said, sternly. German repeated the words. His father listened intently, and then rose and went off to bed in silence without an additional syllable.

All night, however, his mutterings kept his poor wife awake, bursting out sometimes into a rage of words. "I wunnot go, I tell 'ee. I've more right nor he; puttin' my own intil the land for so many year!"

The next morning the trouble came out. "Cass," he said, as she

looked in from the dairy, "I want to speak to ye. Stop the noise o' that wheel d'reckly; I tell ye it'll drive me cracked," he added, turning to his wife, who was spinning. "Hear, both on ye. Th' auld squire" (with an oath) "have a told me I shanna keep the farm arter Lady-day. I that have a been on the land longer nor he, and am a better man nor he, ten times over."

"But why, father?" said Cassie, in a low voice. "He wouldn't do it not for nothing."

"I've a bin a bit behindhand i'th' rent now this many year. I've never got over that time wi' bad harvest as Joshuay choused me, and we've a had two bad year sin', ye know. And now we mun go, bag and baggage, out i' th' wide world, unless you give me that sixty-eight pound, Cass. By right it were yer mother's, and I ought to ha' had it afore. I'll pay ye the interest all right, and I'll gie my consent for yer marrin' o' that fool, the son o' th' knave, and yer uncle Nathan says he wunna let yer hae the money without, an ye choose it. If so be he'll take ye wi' nothing," he added with a fierce grin; "for it's my opinion he's only lookin' arter yer brass."

"He know'd nought about it when he ast her," said Lyddy stoutly, treading the wheel of her spinning mechanically as she spoke.

"Nay, but he know'd Sally Broom's niece weren't likely not to come in for summat good out o' th' pot. It ought to ha' been her mother's, and it's mine by rights," he went on repeating violently, as if to mask his own deed to himself.

"But it's Cassie's now, and she ought to hae it for her housekeeping when she marries," said Lydia, boldly.

Old Ashford glared on her angrily.

"Ye shall hae the money, father, whether or no," put in Cassie, gently. "I'll risk Roland takin' o' me."

To accept a favour gratefully and gracefully is a more difficult thing than people fancy (I mean to teach it in my new and perfect system of education). To receive an obligation heartily requires humility and generosity both. Old Ashford was neither grateful nor graceful, neither humble nor generous, and a grunt was his only reception of his daughter's gift, though he knew and she knew, and he knew that she knew, that she would never see the money again.

"Ye mun go over, German, and see what's come o' Roland. Surely he'll be back by now, and yer father canna fault ye after what he's said but now," said Lydia, as they left the room, moved by the trembling of Cassie's lips, though no sound came from them. ""Twould be poor

work for thee to wed wi' one as had his eyes on thy pocket instead of upon thee, dearie;' but when all's said, 'tis nowt but folks' talk as we've a heerd till now about un. We dunna know a bit what he'd say for hissen, poor lad."

"Anyhow, no one can't say he's lookin' after this world's goods an he comes up to me now," said Cassie, determinedly, though her lips were very white.

German was sometimes now sent by his father, as his bones grew stiffer, to do his business, and he made his way over to Youlcliffe as soon as he could, with the best desire to do his sister's pleasure. He rode boldly up to Joshua's house in the market-place, and hammered for some time at the closed door, but he had been late in starting, and although he heard that Roland had returned from his journey to York he somehow could not hit upon him. In answer to his inquiries Roland was always"on'y just gone past," or "he's mebbe turned the corner, he were here a minit back." Old Nathan was also absent, and there was no one with whom he dared leave a message. Altogether his mission was a failure. He had done his best, however, so that it was mortifying to see Cassie shrugging her shoulders and twisting her hands together, though she did not say a word, and even the implied blame of Lydia's reiterated questions was trying. "What, ye couldn't find 'im anywhere i' th' town? and ye couldn't hear on um?”

nor yer uncle neither,

"Thae women allus think they could ha' done it handier themselves," he muttered to himself, "and it's very aggravating, it is, to a chap!"

CHAPTER XI.

THE ONE-EYED HOUSE.

A DAY or two after old Bessie's funeral Roland returned to Youlcliffe. He had been working his heart out trying to sound and set right that bottomless pit (to an honest man) his father's affairs; and he found on his return, after little more than three weeks, that his dear old friend was gone, and he had not even been present to pay her the last respect. He now felt sure that his father had purposely sent him on a fool's errand, and he resented doubly the being treated as a child, kept from home under false pretences, taught to believe that he was doing his father a service when he was only helping to break his own heart. He was more angry and hurt than Joshua could have conceived possible, and the annoyance did not go off. What might not Cassie think of his absence, of his having allowed himself to be kept away at such a time?

He went down to make his peace with old Nathan, whom he found sitting dismally by the fire, as he looked ruefully at the vacant chair on the other side-he seemed ten years older.

"Nobody can't tell how bare and lonesome it is," said he, "now she be gone. I've got a sorrow down my back-bone wi' thinkin' o' her." Then after a long pause: "I want Bessie, I want my wife!" said he with a loud and bitter cry. What iver will I do wi'out her!"

"You'll mebbe get o'er it, Master Nathan, after a bit. She were a welllivin' 'ooman, yer know, and for sure she's gone to glory, and all happy and comfortable by now," observed Roland, with the best intentions towards consolation.

"Ah, lad, you see it ain't you as have a lost her, it's easy talkin',-the

heart knoweth its own bitterness, and it's him as wears the shoe as is hurted by it. It's all day long and every day as I misses her; and then ye comes and tells me as she's gone to glory and all happy and comfortable up there i' th' clouds! I'm sure she ain't," said the old man with great energy. "I'm sure as how she's a thinkin' What's my old man a doin' wi'out me? and how's he a gettin' on all his lone?' and that'll fret her and worrit her; and 'tain't reasonable to tell me she've a forgotten a' about me, as she were allus fettlin' for and bustlin' about and humouring, any more than I has about her. That's what I think," ended Nathan, passing the back of his hard horny hand over his old wrinkled face, as a solitary tear, more pathetic than a whole bucketful from younger eyes, rolled slowly down his cheek.

Roland was silent; and there are cases when silence is the best speech and the truest consolation,-there are deeper and more eloquent expressions of feeling than any that words can give. Nathan was soon placated by it.

66

Why wast thou not at the burying, lad ?" he said kindly, after a bit. "My Bessie thowt a deal about thee. Thee should'st ha' made a shift to get back for't."

"Tweren't by my own will, Master Nathan. My feyther 'd a sent me after no end o' cattle and debts and coils and things t'other side York; and he somehow kep' it from me as he'd heerd she were ill that day afore I went away. I niver know'd nowt till I come home."

"It's a

"Twere just Joshuay all over," answered the old man. kittle thing for to deal wi' such as he. I'd a took it into my head it were along o' some sweetheart as thou'st a found i' those parts, thou wast biding such a time away; thy father went on telling sa mich about Mitchell's daughter. I wish I'd a know'd thou wast a' right, I'd a made more o' a struggle for thee along o' Cassie's portion. I've a set it down now in her name. But I'd no power for to bind Ashford; and 'twill hardly help thee wi' him, he'll be so cockey now, whativer it may do wi' thy feyther. You've got your handful with them two, Roland. I were in too great a hurry mebbe to pay the money; but I couldn't abide as any one should say I kep' what weren't mine. My Bessie used allus for to say I took too much account o' what man could say o' me. Hur were a very wise 'ooman were my Bessie," said the old man, shaking his head sadly; "much wiser nor me as sets up for it sa mich."

Roland went moodily home to his father's house, which stood back in a corner of the irregular, uneven old market-place. The dwelling part was over a sort of low stable opening on to the cattle-sheds, which had another entrance from the close behind a deep, dark stone archway led into them, by which he could bring out his beasts to market when he wished. The three rooms which the father and son inhabited were only approached by an outside stone stair, making the house into a sort of fortalice, which no one could enter without notice; and this suited Joshua. There was an unused garret lighted by a large round unglazed lucarne in

the tall gable, which looked like a great hollow eye. Two of the windows below had been walled up to save window-tax, as the rooms had a look-out behind; and altogether the place had a grim closed-up look, and went by the name of the " one-eyed house."

Joshua was standing upon his steps as his son came up.

"Well, Nathan have a kep' the money for 's life now, haven't he?" said he, eagerly, hardly leaving room for Roland to pass.

"He set it in Cassie's name at Jones's yesterday," answered his son, shortly, as he turned into the house, scarcely looking round.

Joshua started with a long whistle: it was so unlike what he would have done himself that he could hardly believe it even now, and went hastily away. He began to think that he had outwitted himself. In his extreme dislike to the marriage he had determined in his own mind that Nathan would never allow the money to go away during his lifetime. His own affairs had reached such a pass that he would willingly have obtained such a sum as Cassie's dower even at the sacrifice of his own illwill and temper, and now he had himself put his son out of the way of securing it! Moreover, he disliked the sort of armed peace of their intercourse it deranged his selfishness, if not his heart, it made the house gloomy and uncomfortable, and he did not like being uncomfortable.

Having smoked the pipe of reflection in the little public he returned into the kitchen about an hour afterwards. Roland had fetched in water and coals, and done the various little household "jobs" as usual; for since his wife's death his father had resisted the entrance of any other woman inside his doors. "We do a deal better by ourselves," he always said whenever the subject came up; "I dunno want any woman to come potterin' and dawdlin' and gossipin' about. Roland's very handy." And he did not spare his son.

He had soon finished his work out of doors; there were but few cattle now in the sheds to look after. Some rude sort of cookery for his father's supper was going on, and he sat moodily over a pretence of fire, considering his woes. Even if Joshua gave his consent, Ashford, now that his daughter was an heiress, was less likely to allow the marriage than before in her poverty. Chewing the cud of his bitter thoughts, and ingeniously tormenting himself with all the possible chances against his love, he sat with his head in his hand, thinking sadly of his mother, of whom he had been extremely fond. "She wouldn't ha' let feyther serve me so," he said to himself. The poor woman had led a sad time of it with her husband; she was a "strivin' pious 'ooman," and a most tender mother to her only child, and as long as her life lasted Joshua had been kept somewhat more straight, but she had been dead three years, and Roland knew that the downward course was becoming faster. His father's affairs began to weigh very heavily on his mind. Until the journey to York he had been kept almost entirely in the dark concerning them, but he could tell now how serious they were becoming. There was particularly a tangled skein concerning Jackman the horsedealer, which he could not unravel. Debts, bargains, "set-offs," and