“He’s always worse—more obstinate, that is, when he’s in a good temper. So you may choose your opportunity wrong. But it’s all the same. It can make no difference.” “What are you going to do, then?” “I would let him do his worst. But Jane doesn’t like to go against her mother. I’m sure I can’t think how she should side with my father against both of us. He never laid her under any such obligation, I’m sure.” “There may be more ways than one of accounting for that. You must mind, however, and not be too hard upon your father. You’re quite right in holding fast to the girl; but mind that vexation does not make you unjust.” “I wish my mother were alive. She was the only one that ever could manage him. How she contrived to do it nobody could think; but manage him she did, somehow or other. There’s not a husk of use in talking to HIM.” “I daresay he prides himself on not being moved by talk. But has he ever had a chance of knowing Jane—of seeing what kind of a girl she is?” “He’s seen her over and over.” “But seeing isn’t always believing.” “It certainly isn’t with him.” “If he could only know her! But don’t you be too hard upon him. And don’t do anything in a hurry. Give him a little time, you know. Mrs Rogers won’t interfere between you and Jane, I am pretty sure. But don’t push matters till we see. Good-bye.” “Good-bye, and thank you kindly, sir.—Ain’t I to see Jane in the meantime?” “If I were you, I would make no difference. See her as often as you used, which I suppose was as often as you could. I don’t think, I say, that her mother will interfere. Her father is all on your side.” I called on Mr Brownrigg; but, as his son had forewarned me, I could make nothing of him. He didn’t see, when the mill was his property, and Dick was his son, why he shouldn’t have his way with them. And he was going to have his way with them. His son might marry any lady in the land; and he wasn’t going to throw himself away that way. I will not weary my readers with the conversation we had together. All my missiles of argument were lost as it were in a bank of mud, the weight and resistance of which they only increased. My experience in the attempt, however, did a little to reconcile me to his going to sleep in church; for I saw that it could make little difference whether he was asleep or awake. He, and not Mr. Stoddart in his organ sentry-box, was the only person whom it was absolutely impossible to preach to. You might preach AT him; but TO him?—no. CHAPTER X. MY CHRISTMAS PARTY.