ABRAHAM COWLEY. ISAAC SHARPE, receiving no answer to his knock, walked straight into the parlour. The room was dark save for the smouldering glow of the fire, and it was some time before he discovered Rosalie’s figure huddled up in Elias’s chair. ‘Why, what be to do?’ he inquired, stooping over her. ‘Oh, Mr. Sharpe,’ returned she, with a strangled sob, ‘I have had such a day—I have been so insulted. Oh, how shall I ever forget it! What can I have done to bring about such a thing!’ ‘Come,’ cried the farmer, much alarmed, ‘whatever is it, my dear? Out wi’ it; and let’s have some light to see ourselves by.’ With that he seized the poker and stirred the logs on the hearth, until they flared up with a brightness almost painful to Rosalie’s aching eyes. He saw the traces of tears upon her flushed face, and his concern increased. ‘I heard ye was in trouble again,’ he said, ‘and I thought I’d look in—Them cheeses as ye’ve been a-making of ever since midsummer is back on your hands, they tell me.’ ‘Yes,’ said Rosalie faintly. ‘There are piles and piles of them in the dairy; and Mr. Hardy wrote a most ill-natured letter about them, and everyone in the place will think me a fool. But it is n’t that I mind so much—I shall sell those cheeses somewhere, I suppose, and I know Mr. Hardy only sent them back out of spite because I would n’t marry John—’ ‘Ah,’ put in Isaac, interested; ‘John Hardy axed ye, did he? And you would n’t have ’en?’ ‘Of course not,’ she returned petulantly. ‘Well, Mrs. F.,’ said Isaac, leaning forward in his chair, and speaking solemnly, ‘ye mid ha’ done worse nor take him. ’T is in my mind,’ he went on emphatically, ‘as soon or late ye’ll have to take a second. But, tell me, what was it as upset ye so much to-day?’ ‘I am almost ashamed to say it. Sam Belbin—you know Sam, that common lad that I made cowman out of pure kindness and because I thought him faithful—he—he—that lout, has actually dared to make love to me!’ ‘Well, now,’ commented Isaac, nodding. ‘Are you not amazed? Did you ever hear of such impudence? He dared to call me “my dear”; and he seemed to think that _I_, his mistress, had actually encouraged him! He said something about my dropping a hint. But I soon let him see what I thought of him. I packed him off on the moment!’ ‘Did ye?’ said Isaac. ‘Well, my dear—I beg pardon—Mrs. Fiander, I should say—’ ‘Oh, of course,’ she put in quickly, ‘I don’t mind _your_ saying _my dear_—’t is a very different matter.’