“Hush, Harry!--I don’t know--I can’t tell,” said Agnes, very humbly. “Young Mr. Dunlop has never been here since that time--you mind, Martha--after Harry came back from London.” “And why doesn’t the fellow come again?” said Harry. “A pretty man he is, to think we’re to keep on good terms with him, when he never does anything to keep it up himself. And what’s become of these Nettlehaugh people, and Haigh of Foggo Barns? I suppose it’s your fault, Agnes; you’ve been neglecting the proper forms--you’ve never called on them, I suppose?” “Yes, Harry,” said again the very low, timid voice of Agnes, “you have forgotten--you went with me once to both Foggo and Nettlehaugh, and Martha and I went another time, and they have never called since.” “I should like to know what they mean,” said Harry loudly, his face flushing to a deep crimson. “I suppose they think we’re not so good as them. Never mind, Agnes; never mind, my little wife--you’ll be a richer woman yet, and see your son a greater man than any half-dozen of these little lairdies. I’ll have all the work, you know, and I’ll take it gladly; but little Harry shall be heir to better land than young Dunlop will ever see. A set of nobodies setting up for something! I should like to know what they mean.” “They were very kind at first,” murmured Agnes, scarcely able to restrain the tears with which her eyes were weighed down. “They were very kind at first,” repeated Martha distinctly, as she rose to leave the room; “and to-morrow, when you are alone, Harry, I will tell you what they mean.” Never since she entered Allenders had Martha’s voice had this tone before. Her brother started and turned to look after her, with something of the mingled look--defiance, reverence, respect and pain--which they all knew on his face long ago; but Martha was gone without another word. It had a singular effect on Harry. He sat down at the table, leaned his head upon his hand, and gazed with fixed eyes on the vacant space before him; but he scarcely spoke again that night. CHAPTER VI. Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief, Tho’ thou repent; yet I have still the loss. The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence’s cross. * * * * * As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune’s dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. SHAKSPEARE--(SONNETS).