“Don’t you trouble yourself about my old ’oman, sir. She allus was awk’ard in stays, but she never missed them yet. When she’s said her say, round she comes in the wind like a bird, sir.” “There’s a good old man to stick up for your old wife! Still, I say, they may as well wait a bit. It would be a pity to anger the old gentleman.” “What does the young man say to it?” “Why, he says, like a man, he can work for her as well’s the mill, and he’s ready, if she is.” “I am very glad to hear such a good account of him. I shall look in, and have a little chat with him. I always liked the look of him. Good morning, Mrs. Rogers.” “I’ll see you across the stream, sir,” said the old man, following me out of the house. “You see, sir,” he resumed, as soon as we were outside, “I’m always afeard of taking things out of the Lord’s hands. It’s the right way, surely, that when a man loves a woman, and has told her so, he should act like a man, and do as is right. And isn’t that the Lord’s way? And can’t He give them what’s good for them. Mayhap they won’t love each other the less in the end if Dick has a little bit of the hard work that many a man that the Lord loved none the less has had before him. I wouldn’t like to anger the old gentleman, as my wife says; but if I was Dick, I know what I would do. But don’t ’e think hard of my wife, sir, for I believe there’s a bit of pride in it. She’s afeard of bein’ supposed to catch at Richard Brownrigg, because he’s above us, you know, sir. And I can’t altogether blame her, only we ain’t got to do with the look o’ things, but with the things themselves.” “I understand you quite, and I’m very much of your mind. You can trust me to have a little chat with him, can’t you?” “That I can, sir.” Here we had come to the boundary of his garden—the busy stream that ran away, as if it was scared at the labour it had been compelled to go through, and was now making the best of its speed back to its mother-ocean, to tell sad tales of a world where every little brook must do some work ere it gets back to its rest. I bade him good day, jumped across it, and went into the mill, where Richard was tying the mouth of a sack, as gloomily as the brothers of Joseph must have tied their sacks after his silver cup had been found. “Why did you turn away from me, as I passed half-an-hour ago, Richard?” I said, cheerily. “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t think you saw me.” “But supposing I hadn’t?—But I won’t tease you. I know all about it. Can I do anything for you?” “No, sir. You can’t move my father. It’s no use talking to him. He never hears a word anybody says. He never hears a word you say o’ Sundays, sir. He won’t even believe the Mark Lane Express about the price of corn. It’s no use talking to him, sir.” “You wouldn’t mind if I were to try?” “No, sir. You can’t make matters worse. No more can you make them any better, sir.” “I don’t say I shall talk to him; but I may try it, if I find a fitting opportunity.”