your face is the picture of death; look another way, man, do, or my mare will bolt."

"I beg your pardon, Sir John, but the spasm took me: it is my infirmity; forgive it. This meadow, you perceive, Sir John, required drainage, and afterwards I propose to dress it with free chalk to sweeten the grass. Next field, you will take notice, the guano—

66

Well, well,-Jennings, and that poor fellow there up to his knees in mud, is he pretty tolerably off now?"

"Oh, your honour," said the bailiff with a knowing look, "I only wish that half the little farmers hereabouts were as well to do as he is a pretty cottage, Sir John, half an acre of garden, and twelve shillings a-week, is pretty middling for a single man.

"Aha, is it?-well; but the poor devil looks wretched enough too,-I will just ask him if he wants anything now."

"Don't, Sir John, pray don't; pray permit me to advise your honour: these men are always wanting. 'Acton's cottage' is a proverb; and Roger there can want for nothing

honestly; nevertheless, as I know your honour's good heart, and wish to make all happy, if you will suffer me to see to it my

self "

"Certainly, Jennings, do, do by all means, and thank you: here, just to make a beginning, as we 're all so jolly at the Hall, and that poor fellow 's up to his neck in mud, give him this from me to drink my health with."

66

Acton, who had dutifully held aloof and kept on digging steadily, was still quite near enough to hear all this; at the magical word give" he looked up hurriedly, and saw Sir John Vincent toss a piece of gold,—yes, on his dying oath, a bright new sovereign-to Simon Jennings: O blessed vision, and gold

was to be his at last!

"Come along, Mynton; Hunt, now mind you try and lame that big beast of a rawboned charger among these gutters, will you? I'm off, Jennings; meet me, do you hear, at the Croft to-mor

So the three friends galloped away; and

John Vincent really felt more light-hearted and happy than at any time the week past, for having so properly got rid of a welcome bit of gold.

66

Roger Acton; come up here, sir, out of that ditch: his honour has been liberal enough to give you a shilling to drink his health with." "A shilling, Muster Jennings?" said the poor astonished man; why, I'll make oath it was a pound; I saw it myself. Come, Muster Jennings, don't break jokes upon a poor man's back."

"Jokes, Acton?-sticks, sir, if you say another word take John Vincent's shilling."

66

Oh, sir!" cried Roger, quite unmanned at this most cruel disappointment; "be merciful be generous-give me my gold, my own bit of gold. I'll swear his honour gave it for me; blessings on his head! You know he did, Mr. Simon; don't play upon me."

ઃઃ

Play upon you!-generous-your gold— what is it you mean, man? We'll have no madmen about us, I can tell you take the shilling, or else—”

"Rob not the poor, because he is poor, for the Lord shall plead his cause,

solemn answer.

was the

"Roger Acton," the bailiff gave a scared start, as usual, and, recovering himself, looked both white and stern; 66 you have dared to quote the Bible against me: deeply shall you rue it. Begone, man; your work on this estate is at an end."

CHAPTER VII.

WRONGS AND RUIN.

A VERY miserable man was Roger Acton now, for this last trial was the worst of all. The vapours of his discontent had almost passed away that bright pernicious dream was being rapidly forgotten the morning's ill-got coin," thank the Lord, it was lost as soon as found," and penitence had washed away that blot upon his soul; but here, an honest pound, liberally bestowed by his hereditary landlord his own bright bit of gold — the only bit but one he ever had (and how different in innocence from that one!)—a seeming sugardrop of kindness, shed by the rich heavens on his cup of poverty, to have this meanly filched