y to say that
Betty Muxworthy grinned all across, and poked me again with the greasy
saucepan cover. But I misliking so to be treated, strode through the
kitchen indignantly, for Betty behaved to me even now, as if I were only
Eliza.

'Oh, Johnny, Johnny,' my mother cried, running out of the grand
show-parlour, where the case of stuffed birds was, and peacock-feathers,
and the white hare killed by grandfather; 'I am so glad you are come at
last. There is something sadly amiss, Johnny.'

Mother had upon her wrists something very wonderful, of the nature of
fal-lal as we say, and for which she had an inborn turn, being of good
draper family, and polished above the yeomanry. Nevertheless I could
never bear it, partly because I felt it to be out of place in our good
farm-house, partly because I hate frippery, partly because it seemed to
me to have nothing to do with father, and partly because I never could
tell the reason of my hating it. And yet the poor soul had put them on,
not to show her hands off (which were above her station) but simply
for her children's sake, because Uncle Ben had given them. But another
thing, I never could bear for man or woman to call me, 'Johnny,'
'Jack,' or 'John,' I cared not which; and that was honest enough, and no
smallness of me there, I say.

'Well, mother, what is the matter, then?'

'I am sure you need not be angry, Johnny. I only hope it is nothing to
grieve about, instead of being angry. You are very sweet-tempered, I
know, John Ridd, and perhaps a little too sweet at times'--here she
meant the Snowe girls, and I hanged my head--'but what would you say if
the people there'--she never would call them 'Doones'--'had gotten your
poor Uncle Reuben, horse, and Sunday coat, and all?'

'Why, mother, I should be sorry for them. He would set up a shop by the
river-side, and come away with all their money.'

'That all you have to say, John! And my dinner done to a very turn, and
the supper all fit to go down, and no worry, only to eat and be done
with it! And all the new plates come from Watchett, with the Watchett
blue upon them, at the risk of the lives of everybody, and the capias
from good Aunt Jane for stuffing a curlew with onion before he begins to
get cold, and make a woodcock of him, and the way to turn the flap over
in the inside of a roasting pig--'

'Well, mother dear, I am very sorry. But let us have our dinner. You
know we promised not to wait for him after one o'clock; a