ere
such as pleased him and engaged his attention. He made no attempt
to analyze his feelings towards her. He was not one to probe his
own heart, nor had he the resolution to break away from temptation,
even when recognized as such. Easy-going, good-natured, impulsive,
with a spice of his mother's selfishness in his nature, he allowed
himself to follow his inclinations without consideration whither
they might lead him, and how they might affect others.

Iver's eyes, thoughts, were distracted from the game. He lost
money--five shillings, and Jonas urged him to play for higher
stakes.

Then Mehetabel laid her needlework in her lap, and said--

"No, Iver, do not. You have played sufficiently, and have lost
enough. Go home."

Jonas swore at her.

"What is that to you? We may amuse ourselves without your meddling.
What odds to you if he loses, so long as I win. I am your husband
and not he."

But Iver rose, and laughingly said:--

"Better go home with a wet jacket than with all the money run out
of my pocket. Good-night, Bideabout."

"Have another shot?"

"Not another."

"She put you up to this," with a spiteful glance at Mehetabel.

"Not a bit, Jonas. Don't you think a chap feels he's losing blood,
without being told he is getting white about the gills."

The Broom-Squire sulkily began to gather up the cards.

"What sort of a night is it, Mehetabel? Go to the door and see,"
said he.

The girl rose and opened the door.

Without, the night was black as pitch, and in the light that
issued the raindrops glittered as they fell. In the trees, in
the bushes, on the grass, was the rustle of descending rain.

"By Jove, it's worse than ever," said Iver: "lend me a lantern, or
I shall never reach home."

"I haven't one to spare," replied Bideabout; "the hogs and calves
must be tended, and the horse, Old Clutch, littered down. Best way
that you have another game with me, and you shall stay the night.
We have a spare room and bed."

"I accept with readiness," said Iver.

"Go--get all ready, Matabel. Now, then! you cut, I deal."

CHAPTER XVII.

DREAMS.

Iver remained the night in the little farm-house. He thought
nothing as he lay in bed of the additional shillings he had lost
to Jonas, but of the inestimable loss he had sustained in Mehetabel.

The old childish liking he had entertained for her revived. It did
more than revive, it acquired strength and heat. As a boy he had
felt some pride and s