and looking kindly at mother; "I can allow for you, Cousin Sarah,
in everything but one. I am in some ways a bad man myself; but I know
the value of a good one; and if you gave me orders, by God--" And he
shook his fists towards Bagworthy Wood, just heaving up black in the
sundown.

"Hush, Tom, hush, for God's sake!" And mother meant me, without pointing
at me; at least I thought she did. For she ever had weaned me from
thoughts of revenge, and even from longings for judgment. "God knows
best, boy," she used to say, "let us wait His time, without wishing
it." And so, to tell the truth, I did; partly through her teaching, and
partly through my own mild temper, and my knowledge that father, after
all, was killed because he had thrashed them.

"Good-night, Cousin Sarah, good-night, Cousin Jack," cried Tom, taking
to the mare again; "many a mile I have to ride, and not a bit inside of
me. No food or shelter this side of Exeford, and the night will be black
as pitch, I trow. But it serves me right for indulging the lad, being
taken with his looks so."

"Cousin Tom," said mother, and trying to get so that Annie and I could
not hear her; "it would be a sad and unkinlike thing for you to despise
our dwelling-house. We cannot entertain you, as the lordly inns on the
road do; and we have small change of victuals. But the men will go home,
being Saturday; and so you will have the fireside all to yourself and
the children. There are some few collops of red deer's flesh, and a ham
just down from the chimney, and some dried salmon from Lynmouth weir,
and cold roast-pig, and some oysters. And if none of those be to your
liking, we could roast two woodcocks in half an hour, and Annie would
make the toast for them. And the good folk made some mistake last week,
going up the country, and left a keg of old Holland cordial in the
coving of the wood-rick, having borrowed our Smiler, without asking
leave. I fear there is something unrighteous about it. But what can a
poor widow do? John Fry would have taken it, but for our Jack. Our Jack
was a little too sharp for him."

Ay, that I was; John Fry had got it, like a billet under his apron,
going away in the gray of the morning, as if to kindle his fireplace.
"Why, John," I said, "what a heavy log! Let me have one end of it."
"Thank'e, Jan, no need of thiccy," he answered, turning his back to
me; "waife wanteth a log as will last all day, to kape the crock a
zimmerin." And he banged his gat