erybody that 'ud ha' taken the trouble.
If I hadn't lost that key----"

The shoemaker scowled, and with the two fat books under his arm passed
the listening neighbours with the air of a thoughtful man out for an
evening stroll. Once inside his house, however, his manner changed, the
attitude of Mrs. Quince demanding, at any rate, a show of concern.

"It's no good talking," he said at last. "Ned shouldn't have gone there,
and as for going to law about it, I sha'n't do any such thing; I should
never hear the end of it. I shall just go on as usual, as if nothing had
happened, and when Rose is tired of keeping him there he must let him
out. I'll bide my time."

Mrs. Quince subsided into vague mutterings as to what she would do if she
were a man, coupled with sundry aspersions upon the character, looks, and
family connections of Farmer Rose, which somewhat consoled her for being
what she was.

"He has always made jokes about your advice," she said at length, "and
now everybody'll think he's right. I sha'n't be able to look anybody in
the face. I should have seen through it at once if it had been me. I'm
going down to give him a bit o' my mind."

"You stay where you are," said Mr. Quince, sharply, "and, mind, you are
not to talk about it to anybody. Farmer Rose 'ud like nothing better
than to see us upset about it. I ain't done with him yet. You wait."

Mrs. Quince, having no option, waited, but nothing happened. The
following day found Ned Quince still a prisoner, and, considering the
circumstances, remarkably cheerful. He declined point-blank to renounce
his preposterous attentions, and said that, living on the premises, he
felt half like a son-in-law already. He also complimented the farmer
upon the quality of his bread.

The next morning found him still unsubdued, and, under interrogation from
the farmer, he admitted that he liked it, and said that the feeling of
being at home was growing upon him.

"If you're satisfied, I am," said Mr. Rose, grimly. "I'll keep you here
till you promise; mind that."

"It's a nobleman's life," said Ned, peeping through the window, "and I'm
beginning to like you as much as my real father."

"I don't want none o' yer impudence," said the farmer, reddening.

[Illustration: "'None o' yer impudence,' said the farmer."]

"You'll like me better when you've had me here a little longer," said
Ned; "I shall grow on you. Why not be reasonable and make up your mind
to it?