The troubles of that one afternoon seemed to have wrought quite a change in Sage, for as, according to her custom, she took a folded spill from the mantelshelf, and lit it ready to hold to her uncle's pipe, her eyes looked wild and dilated, while her usually rounded cheeks seemed quite hollowed, giving her a wild, haggard aspect, such as is seen in one newly risen from a bed of sickness. "Yes, I'm going to talk seriously to both of you," continued the Churchwarden; "but I'm not going into a passion, now. That's over. Get your work, both of you, and sit down." The trembling women obeyed, after exchanging quick glances; Mrs Portlock's being accompanied by a movement of her lips, which Sage interpreted to be "I can't help it." The work-baskets were brought to the table, and as the Churchwarden sat placidly smoking and staring at the fire, the sharp _twit_ of needle against thimble was heard in the stillness, which was not otherwise broken till the farmer took his pipe from his lips and uttered a stern-- "Now then." Sage started quickly back from where her thoughts had wandered after Cyril Mallow, whom in imagination she had just overtaken and brought back from a wandering life, to bless him and make him happy, while Luke Ross had forgiven her, and every one was going to be happy once again. "Hold your tongue, mother," said the farmer, sharply. "I've given you a bit of my mind." "Indeed, you have," she cried, querulously, "and, I must say, soon--" "No, you mustn't," he shouted. "I'm going to talk this time. You generally do all that; but it's my turn now." "Oh, just as you like, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock, in an ill-used, protesting tone; "but I must say--" "No, you mustn't," he cried again, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table with such an effect upon his wife, whose nerves were still shaken by the verbal castigation she had received before tea, that she started from her chair, hesitated a moment, and then ran sobbing out of the room. For a moment the Churchwarden sat frowning. Then he half rose as if to call her back, but directly after he subsided into his place, and sat frowning sternly at his niece. "Let her go," he said. "I've said my mind to her. Now I want to talk to you." Sage hesitated, with her work in her hand; then, letting it fall, she went to the other side of the table and knelt down, resting her elbows upon her uncle's knees, and gazing appealingly in his face. The Churchwarden in his heart wanted to clasp her in his arms and kiss her pale, drawn face, but he checked the desire, and, putting on a judicial expression-- "Now," he exclaimed. "So you are playing fast and loose with Luke Ross?" "No, uncle," she replied, softly. "What do you call it, then? Of course there is no engagement between you, but Luke expects that some day you will be his wife." "Yes, uncle." "And as soon as his back is turned, I find you encouraging this fellow, Cyril Mallow." "No, indeed, uncle, I have not," cried Sage.