Kitty gasped again. Farmer Inkpen possessed a gold watch of turnip shape and immense weight, but she felt quite sure it was not rolled gold, and in consequence a highly inferior article. She turned towards Olf with a sudden movement and clasped both her little hands about his arm--“I do like ye, Olf,” she said, “I do. I do think ye be the kindest man that ever was made. I’ll work for ye so hard as I can when I be your missus.” There being no reason to delay the wedding, preparations were made at once for that auspicious event. On the following Sunday the banns were put up; Kitty and Olf paid several visits to the upholsterer’s in the neighbouring town and selected sundry articles of furniture, Olf giving orders right and left in a lordly fashion which quite dazzled his future bride. Farmer Inkpen made inquiries with regard to a certain farm which he thought might possibly suit his former assistant, and was moreover good enough to promise help and advice in the selection of stock. All, in fact, was proceeding merrily as that marriage bell which they both so soon expected to hear, when there came of a sudden a bolt from the blue. The manager of the local bank sent a peremptory message one evening to Olf requesting, or rather ordering, him to call without delay. The poor fellow obeyed the summons without alarm, without even the faintest suspicion that anything was wrong, and it was indeed with great difficulty that the manager conveyed to him the astounding fact that the precious bond, which was to have been the foundation of his fortune, was so much waste paper; the prize-drawing had been a swindling concern, and the thousand pound prize did not exist. “But I thought you told I that ’ere bit o’ paper _was_ a thousand pound,” expostulated Olf, when for the fortieth time the manager had explained the state of the case. “That bit of paper represented a thousand pounds,” returned that gentleman, with diminishing patience, “but when we came to collect it, the money wasn’t there.” Olf scratched his head and looked at him. “And what be I to do now?” he inquired. “Why, nothing, I am afraid. I don’t suppose you would be able to prosecute, and even if you had the money to carry on your case, it would not do you much good to get those swindlers punished. You will just have to grin and bear it, my poor fellow. We will give you time you know--we won’t be hard with you.” “Time?” ejaculated Olf, staring at him blankly. “Yes. We have let you have £5 on account you know. That will have to be paid back, of course, but we won’t press you. You can let us have it little by little.” “Oh!” said Olf, “thank ye,” and he went out, absently stroking the check sleeve of the beautiful new suit which had cost him so dear. He shambled back to the farm and paused by the gate, across which Mr. Inkpen was leaning. “Hullo, Olf, back again?” “’E-es,” said Olf, “I be back again, maister. Ye bain’t suited yet, be ye?”