“I discovered it,” replied Rachel, rising also and facing him with her head thrown back and her youthful eyes flashing, “I discovered it in the music-book which was left last night upon this table. I saw it placed there clandestinely by my niece Ruth.” “Be you mad, Miss Blythe?” asked Fuller, with a slow solemnity of inquiry which would have made the question richly mirthful to an auditor. “Do you mean to tell me as you go about spyin' after wheer my little wench puts her letters to her sweetheart? Why, fie, fie, ma'am! That's a child's trick, not a bit like a growd-up woman.” Fuller was astonished, but Rachel's amazement transcended his own. “And you tell me, John Fuller, that you know the character of this man?” “Know his character!” cried Fuller. “Who should know it better nor me? The lad's well-nigh lived i' my house ever sence he was no higher 'n my elber. Know his character? Ah! Should think I did an' all. The cliverest lad of his hands and the best of his feet for twenty mile around--as full o' pluck as a tarrier an' as kindly-hearted as a wench. Bar his Uncle Ezra, theer niver was a mon to match him in Heydon Hay i' my time. Know his character!” He was unused to speak with so much vigor, and he paused breathless and mopped his scarlet face with his shirt-sleeve, staring across his arm at Rachel meanwhile in mingled rage and wonder. “His Uncle Ezra?” said Rachel, looking fixedly and scornfully back at him. “His Uncle Ezra is a villain!” For a second or two he stared at her with a countenance of pure amazement, and then burst into a sudden gurgle of laughter. This so overmastered him that he had to cling to the table for support, and finally to resume his seat. His jolly face went crimson, and the tears chased each other down his fat cheeks. When he seemed to have had his laugh quite out, and sat gasping and mopping his eyes with his shirt-sleeve, a chance look at Rachel reinspired the passion of his mirth, and he laughed anew until he had to clip his wide ribs with his palms as if to hold himself together. A mere gleam of surprise crossed the scorn and anger of Rachel's face as she watched him, but it faded quickly, and when once it had passed her expression remained unchanged. “Good-morning, Aunt Rachel,” cried Ruth's fresh voice. “You are early.” Rachel turned briskly round in time to see Ruth disappear from a white-curtained upper window. Fuller rose with a face of sudden sobriety, and began once more to mop his eyes. In a mere instant Ruth appeared at the door running towards the pair with a face all smiles. “Why, father,” she cried, kissing the old man on the cheek, “what a laugh! You haven't laughed so for a year. What is the joke, Aunt Rachel?” She saw at a glance that, whatever the jest might be, Aunt Rachel was no sharer in it. “I know of no joke, Niece Ruth,” said the old lady, with mincing iciness.