mon report, and she had a good deal of liking and
respect for him, and a little pity, being a good girl, and no coquette.

'I see thee understandest,' said Samson. 'I told th' ode man as he might
look on it as settled, an' Tom 'll be here to-morrow. He's a likely lad,
an' he'll have all the Bush Farm when his father goes, as must be afore
long, i' the course o' nature. The two farms 'll goo very well in a
ring fence. Theer's no partic'lar hurry, as I know on, an' we'll ha' the
weddin' next wik, or the wik after.'

The girl's breast was labouring cruelly, in spite of the hand that
strove to still it.

'Father!' she said. 'You don't mean it!'

'Eh?' said Samson. 'I ginerally mean what I say, my wench. I should ha'
thout as yo'd ha' known that by this time.'

He stopped there, for Julia, but for her mother's arm, would have
fallen.

'You great oaf!' cried Mrs. Mountain, irritated for once into open
rebellion. 'Oh, it's like a man, the stupid hulkin' creeturs as they
are, to come an' frighten the life out of a poor maid i' that style.'

'Theer, theer!' said Samson, with the same heavy and threatening
tranquillity he had borne throughout the interview. 'Tek her upstairs.'

He sat down again, and without another word filled and lit his
churchwarden, and stared through the smoke-wreaths at the grate.

V

Mrs. Jenny Rusker, who was half dead with fear of an _expose_ of her
part in this unlucky love-affair, was additionally prostrated by the
dire reversal of all her hopes by Samson Mountain's ultimatum. Mrs.
Mountain, with the aid of a female servant, supported Julia upstairs,
and Samson smoked on stolidly, taking no note whatever of the visitor's
presence. Still in doubt of what Samson might or might not know, and
fearing almost to breathe, lest any reminder of her presence should call
down his wrath upon her, she listened to the tramping and the muffled
noises overhead until they ceased, and then, gathering courage from his
continued apathy, slipped from the room and left the house.

She got home and went to bed and passed an interminable night in tossing
to and fro, and bewailing the untoward fate of the two children. Dawn
came at last, though it had seemed as if it never would break again,
and, for the first time for many a year, the first gleam of sunlight saw
her dressed and downstairs. She felt feverous and ill, and having brewed
for herself a huge jorum of tansy tea, sat down over this inspiring
bevera