‘Now look you here,’ said Mr. Babb. ‘Do you see that stretch of field yonder where the cloth is strained in the sun? Very well. That cloth is mine. It is woven in my mill yonder. That field was purchased seventeen years ago for my accommodation. I can’t repay the money now without selling the factory or the field, and neither is worth a shilling without the other. No—we must all put up with losses. I have mine; the Lord sends your father his. A wise Providence orders all that. Tell him so. His heart has been hankering after mammon, and now Heaven has deprived him of it. I’ve had losses too. I’ve learned to bear them. So must he. What is your name?—I mean your Christian name?’ ‘Barbara.’ ‘Oh! not Eve—dear, no. You don’t look as if that were your name.’ ‘Eve is my sister—my half-sister.’ ‘Ah, ha! the elder daughter. And what has become of the little one?’ ‘She is well, at home, and beautiful as she is good. She is not at all like me.’ ‘That is a good job—for you. I mean, that you are not like her. Is she lively?’ ‘Oh, like a lark, singing, dancing, merry.’ ‘Of course, thoughtless, light, a feather that flies and tosses in the breath.’ ‘To return to the money. It was to have been my sister’s.’ ‘Well,’ said the old man with a giggle, ‘let it so remain. It _was_ to have been. Now it cannot be. Whose fault is that? Not mine. I kept the money for your father. I am a man of my word. When I make a covenant I do not break it. But my son—my son!’ ‘Your son is now with us.’ ‘You say he has stolen the money. Let your father not spare him. There is no good in being lenient. Be just. When my son robbed me, I did not spare him. I will not lift a little finger to save Jasper, who now, as you say, has robbed your father. Wait where you are; I will run in, and write something, which will perhaps satisfy Mr. Jordan; wait here, you cannot enter, or your horse would run away. What did you give for that cob? not much. Do you want to sell him? I don’t mind ten pounds. He’s not worth more. See how he hangs his off hind leg. That’s a blemish that would stand in your way of selling. Would you like to go over the factory? No charge, you can tip the foreman a shilling. No cloth weaving your way, only wool growing; and—judging from what I saw of your father—wool-gathering.’ With a cackle the old man slipped in and shut the door in Barbara’s face. Miss Jordan stood patting the neck of her disparaged horse. ‘You are not to be parted with, are you, Jock, to an old skinflint who would starve you?’ The cob put his nose on her shoulder, and rubbed it. She looked round. Everything spoke of sordidness, only the factory seemed cared for, where money was made. None was wasted on the adornment, even on the decencies, of life. The door opened. Mr. Babb had locked it after him as he went in. He came out with a folded letter in his hand. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘give that to your father.’