Olver crouched by the fire between the dogs, his curls almost as matted as their pelt. He eyed his brother from under his brows, as though he expected to be scolded. Lovel however only said quietly, “I shall remain at home to-morrow, and if you choose you can go to the Manor House for me.” He let fall this remark in the midst of his occupation of clearing the room before going to bed; he let it fall so casually that no trace appeared of the effort it cost him. “But if you should see Miss Warrener,” he added, “you must breathe no word of the folly you uttered to me. I must have your word on that, you have never yet broken your word to me.” “I will not tell Miss Warrener,” said Olver. Lovel was satisfied. Olver set out early on the following morning, carrying his basket of tools slung on his back, and a number of clean new planks, smelling of resin, under his arm. Nicholas stood at the door to watch him go, envious, regretful, but sturdy in his determination. Olver walked quickly up the village street; the morning was bright; he felt good and competent this morning, and full of importance: not only had Nicholas trusted him to do his work, but he was full of a private intention to spy out the land at the Manor House; if Nicholas wanted Clare, why, then Nicholas must have what he wanted; it seemed to Olver quite simple and direct. He turned in at the gates of the Manor House, pleased by the pretty garden and the cool house with its long windows and open shutters. The lowering mood which was usual to him receded further and further; it was pleasant to feel so good; he looked all round him as he walked, smiling. The door was opened to him by Martha Sparrow in a clean cap and apron; he wanted to kiss her soft old face, which looked as though it smelt of soap, but instead of doing that he pulled off his cap very civilly and said that he had come to fix the bookshelves since his brother was unable. Martha Sparrow looked at his tight curls and thought with surprise that he was an agreeable-looking lad; telling him to wait a moment, she left him on the doorstep and went to Mr. Warrener. “Young Lovel, sir,” she said, “have sent the zany in his stead.” Mr. Warrener had forgotten all about the book-shelves; he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared at Martha. “Sent the zany, Martha? What for?” Martha respectfully and patiently reminded him. “To be sure, to be sure.” He turned and surveyed with a helpless resentment the books piled up in a corner of his room. “Bring him in, Martha,” he said, resignedly. “You’ll have him in the room, sir, then?” said Martha dubiously. “Why not? why not? to be sure, he has to put up the shelves,” replied Mr. Warrener, scenting disapproval. “These gipsies, sir ... and the zany as naughty as a magpie?” “I’ll stop with him, Martha,” said Mr. Warrener, who before the rebuke of his old servant instantly became a great coward.