"And, for my part," said the Churchwarden, good-humouredly, "I'm a bit of a Radical, and don't believe in taking off your hat to a man because he happens to have a few thousand pounds more than one's got oneself. If he's a wonderful clever chap, with more brains than I've got, why, I do look up to him; but I'm not going down on my knees to a set of folks who yawn through their lives, doing nothing, except telling you by word and look that they are a better class of people than you are; and as for Master Cyril Mallow, he's a well-built, strapping young fellow, who can talk well, and shoot well, but if he had happened to be my sod, instead of old Mallow's, I'd have licked him into a different shape to what he's in now, ay, and his brother too, or I'd have known the reason why. Dinner in, my lass? That's well. Come along, Luke. Tchah! nonsense! you shall stay. You can tell the old man your reasons better when you've got a bit of roast beef under your waistcoat, and some of my ale. Why, Sage, lass, what ails you? Your face is as white as a bit o' dough." "Oh, nothing, uncle, nothing," she replied, forcing a smile, as she hurried to a tall press to get out a napkin for their visitor, and soon after they were seated at the hospitable meal, which was more bounteous on a market-day, the nearness of the farm to the town making it always probable that the Churchwarden might bring up a friend. But Luke Ross was the only stranger on that occasion, and he sat opposite Sage, whose countenance, though less troubled than when she had overheard her uncle's words, was lacking in its ordinary composure. Luke saw this, and attributed it to their conversation, and the interest she took in his affairs. Her aunt saw it, too, and, with the idea of comforting her niece, kept turning the conversation to the Rector and his family, but not to do any good, for out of mere contrariety, and with a twinkle in his eye as he glanced at Luke, the Churchwarden set to and roundly abused the Rector and his sons for their ways. "Come, Luke," he said, "you are not making half a meal. I suppose by and by, sir, you will be as fashionable as Master Cyril Mallow, and won't eat a bit at dinner-time without calling it lunch. Ha, ha, ha!" "There, do have done, Joseph," cried Mrs Portlock. "What have you got to laugh at now?" "I was thinking of the horse-whipping I gave the young dogs--ay, it's twelve or fourteen years ago now--that night I caught them in the orchard." "There, do let bygones be bygones, Joseph," cried Mrs Portlock, sharply. "Boys will be boys. I'll be bound to say you stole apples yourself when you were young." "Ay, that I did, and got thrashed for it, too. But I must say that Cyril Mallow don't bear any malice for what I did."