But Jacob did not take the hint. He sat down on the table instead, and watched the girl as, with an affectation of ignoring his presence, she moved about, filling her saucepan at the tap, peeling the potatoes, setting them on to boil. She did everything swiftly, deftly, and gracefully, holding her head very erect meanwhile, and being a little sharper in her movements than usual on account of her inward irritation. By-and-by Mrs. Masters came creaking down the narrow stairs, and started back at the sight of the farmer. “Dear! To be sure! I didn’t know you had visitors here, Bethia, my dear. Won’t you sit i’ the armchair, Mr. Fowler? Do ’ee now. I’m sure ’tis very kind o’ ye to come a-visitin’ o’ we in our trouble.” Bethia marched past her mother, removed the pot from the fire, and carried it over to the table. “Could you make a little room, if you please?” she inquired tartly. Jacob chuckled and rubbed his hands as he slowly removed his ponderous frame; then the remembrance of his former grievance returned to him, and he gazed at the widow loweringly. “You don’t like this here notion, Mrs. Masters, I hope?” he inquired severely. “What notion, sir?” returned the poor woman, startled. “Why, this here notion o’ your daughter a-gaddin’ about lookin’ arter the rates.” “Well, you see, we be so hard pressed, we be,” faltered she. “My daughter do try to do her best to earn a little, all ways she can. I’m sorry as you’ve a-got objections, Mr. Fowler.” “It doesn’t in the least matter if he’s got objections or not,” put in Bethia tartly. “It’s no concern of Mr. Fowler’s. So long as he pays up regularly he need not trouble himself.” Jacob got out of the armchair and once more approached the table. “Look ’ee here,” he said threateningly; “this here’s past a joke. I do forbid ye for to do it--do ye hear?” Bethia looked at him steadily. “I hear, and I can only repeat what I said before. Now, Mr. Fowler, will you please go away? I’m going to dish up.” “Bethia, my dear!” protested Mrs. Masters feebly. “There, she’ve a-got sich a spirit, Mr. Fowler, you must excuse her. She be a bit vexed, you see, wi’ you findin’ fault wi’ her. I’m sure, the longer you stay, Mr. Fowler, the better we’m pleased. We’ve nothin’ much fit to offer ye, but if ye’d like to sit down and take a bit wi’ us you’re truly welcome.” Bethia shot an indignant glance towards her parent, and Jacob stood hesitating for a moment; then with a laugh he drew up his chair to the table. “I’ll not refuse a good offer,” he said. Bethia fetched a plate, knife and fork, and glass, setting each before him with somewhat unnecessary clatter. Then she served up the vegetables, brought out a roll of butter and a small piece of cheese from the buttery, and took her place in silence. “I’m sorry,” began Mrs. Masters regretfully, “we’ve got nothing better to offer ye, Mr. Fowler. My daughter and me seldom eats meat of a week day.”