The three looked at each other. Giles and Mike began to laugh, as much at Hodge's angry disgust as at the thing itself. "You've not hit it off, after all," said Michael to his host. "Still, anything's better than nothing. I vote that we eat what there is," and he cut a slice off his loaf. The others--Hodge very gloomily--did the same and began to eat. The provisions were good of their kind. "I wonder what I did wrong, or didn't do right," said Giles. "At worst, Hodge, I've got on better than you, and next Sunday maybe Michael will manage best of all. Surely you'll get some hot potatoes at least, Mike?" "I don't think I'm going to try at all," said the youngest of the cousins. "It's been a mean sort of lega----" began Hodge. But before he finished the word, Michael stopped him. "You mustn't speak against Uncle Peter," he said. "He did his best for us, of that I'm sure. The spell was not of his making. He had no power over it. He taught us all he could. Strikes me we're not _good_ enough to succeed, somehow. Think what he was! So contented and patient, and so unselfish! Giving away of the little he had, keeping scarce anything for himself." "He was always sure of a good Sunday dinner, anyway," grumbled Hodge. "And did he keep even that to himself?" queried Michael. By this time the table was cleared of the little it had offered. Giles stood up and held out the bell. "We may as well send it back again," he said, ringing, as he spoke, and in a few moments the whole had disappeared as they had seen it do that last Sunday at old Peter's. Hodge walked off without speaking. Giles turned to Michael--he was still holding the little bell. "Are you in earnest, Mike," he asked, "about giving up your try? If so, what's to be done with this?" He waved the pretty thing in his hand as he spoke. Strange to say, it gave out no sound. The cousins looked at it curiously. The queer incident impressed them afresh, and Michael hesitated in his reply. "There is no tricking of us in it," he murmured. Then he turned to Giles. "You may as well give it to me," he said. "I'll think it over and let you know before next Sunday--and Hodge too, for that matter." A new idea had struck him and his face brightened. He would consult Ysenda and abide by her advice, and in the meantime he carefully hid away the silver bell. For two or three days to come he had no opportunity of meeting the farmer's pretty daughter. But one evening when he had looked in at Dame Martha's to see how she and the orphans were getting on, he met Ysenda, on her way thither. She was carrying a basket with what provisions she had got leave to bring them. For she was too honest to give away anything belonging to her father without his permission. She stopped at once, on seeing Mike, who doffed his hat. "Good evening," she said, "I am----" but he interrupted her. "Let me carry that for you. It is heavy," he began, taking hold of the handle.