quiet farm, a strange and sad scene presented itself. Evidences of "_the
man_" were in all directions. He had been at work while Mr. Bumpkin in
his convivial moments was protesting that he did not owe anyone a
shilling. Alas! how little the best of as know how much we owe!

Mrs. Bumpkin, who had borne up like a true woman through all the troubles
that had come upon her home,--borne up for his sake, hoping for better
days, and knowing nothing of the terrible net that had been spread around
them by the wily fowler, at length gave way, as she saw "the man" loading
his cart with her husband's wheat; the wheat he had gone that day to
sell. Bitterly she wrung her hands, and begged him to spare her husband
that last infliction. Was there anything that she could do or give to
save him this blow? No, no; the man was obstinate in the performance of
his duty; "right was right, and wrong was no man's right!"

So when Mr. Bumpkin returned, the greater part of his wheat was gone, and
the rest was being loaded. The beautiful rick of hay too, which had not
yet ceased to give out the fresh scent that a new rick yields, were being
cut and bound into trusses.

Poor Tom was fairly beside himself, but Mrs. Bumpkin had taken the
precaution to hide the gun and the powder-flask, for she could not tell
what her husband might do in his distraction. Possibly she was right.
Tom's rage knew no bounds. Youth itself seemed to be restored in the
strength of his fury. He saw dimly the men standing around looking on;
he saw, as in a dream, the man cutting on the rick, and he uttered
incoherent sentences which those only understood who were accustomed to
his provincial accent.

"Tom, Tom," said Mrs. Bumpkin, "don't be in a rage."

"Who be thic feller on my rick?"

"I beant any more a feller nor thee, Maister Boompkin; it aint thy rick
nuther."

"Then in the name of h--, whose be it?"

"It be Maister Skinalive's; thee can't have t' cake an eat un; thee
sowled it to un."

"It be a lie, a --- lie; come down!"

"Noa, noa, I beant coomin doon till I coot all t' hay; it be good hay an
all, as sweet as a noot."

"Where is thy master?" enquired Mrs. Bumpkin.

"I dooant rightly knoo, missus, where ur be; but I think if thee could
see un, he'd poot it right if thee wanted time loike, and so on, for he
be a kind-hearted man enoo."

"Can we find un, do ur think?" asked Mrs. Bumpkin.

"If thee do, missus, it wur moor un I bin able to do fo