“Don’t make excuses, Mother,” interrupted Bethia, with asperity. “Mr. Fowler knows very well that we are poor.” The meal proceeded in silence for the most part, Mrs. Masters making an occasional remark, to which Jacob responded by a gruff monosyllable. Bethia did not speak once, but had never looked prettier in her life; the angry sparkle still lingered in her eyes, and her cheeks were flushed. Whenever she glanced at the visitor her countenance took on an additional expression of haughtiness. At the end of the repast Jacob stood up. “I’d like a word wi’ ye private, Miss Masters.” “Oh, I beg pardon, I’m sure,” apologised the poor old mother, hastening to efface herself. As soon as her heavy footsteps were heard in the room upstairs the farmer turned to Bethia. “I’ve a-come to see ye friendly like,” he remarked, “and I’ll come again. I ax ye, as a friend, my maid--will ye gie this notion up?” Bethia looked if possible more indignant than before. “No, Mr. Fowler,” she returned promptly, “I tell you--as a friend--I won’t.” “Then you’ll ha’ trouble wi’ I, I warn ’ee,” responded he, almost with a groan. Jacob Fowler kept his word, and gave the poor little rate-collector an inconceivable amount of trouble. He took no notice whatever of her demand-notes and official reminders; and when she called to see him in person, though he received her with civility and even undisguised pleasure, he resolutely refused to part with a farthing. The friendliness with which he hailed her advent, and entered into conversation on indifferent subjects, gave place to a rigid silence as soon as she touched on the motive of her visit, and he would shake his head fiercely as often as she reverted to the point. One day she found him in what she took to be a softened mood. It was in the spring, and the consciousness that it was grand weather for potato-setting, added to the recollection of a long and successful day’s work, had put Jacob in an unusually good humour. He was smoking in his porch when she drew near, and at once invited her to sit down and rest. “You do look a bit tired, my maid,” he remarked; “tired and worried.” “I am tired and worried too,” said Bethia, looking up at him appealingly. “I’m afraid of getting into trouble, Mr. Fowler.” “Oh,” said Jacob, “how’s that?” “They will be down on me for not sending in the money regularly,” returned the girl tremulously; “I’ve got it all in except yours.” Jacob, instead of immediately becoming wooden of aspect, as was his wont, gazed at her searchingly. “You’d be all right if you was to get mine?” he inquired. “Yes--oh, yes, Mr. Fowler. Couldn’t you pay up and have done with it?” Jacob shook his head, but this time apparently more in sorrow than in anger. “Can’t be done, my maid. I’ve a-passed my word, d’ye see, and I be forced to stick to it.” “I think you are very unkind,” said Bethia; “you are trying to force me to give up one of the few ways I have of making a living.”