“Well, sir. George and I are a little short just at present; it is only for a time, and George says he should take it very kind if you would lend us a hundred pound, just to help us over the stile.” “Why, Mr. Willum,” replied Meadows, “I should be delighted, and if you had only asked me yesterday, I could have done it as easy as stand here; but my business drinks a deal of money, Mr. Willum, and I laid out all my loose cash yesterday; but, of course, it is of no consequence--another time--good morning, Mr. Willum.” Away sauntered Meadows, leaving William planted there, as the French say. George ran out of the kitchen. “Well?” “He says he has got no money loose.” “He is a liar! he paid 1,600 pounds into the bank yesterday, and you knew it; didn't you tell him so?” “No; what use? A man that lies to avoid lending won't be driven to lend.” “You don't play fair,” retorted George. “You could have got it from Meadows, if you had a mind; but you want to drive your poor brother against his sweetheart's father; you are false, my lad.” “You are the only man that ever said so; and you durstn't say it if you weren't my brother.” “If it wasn't for that, I'd say a deal more.” “Well, show your high stomach to Uncle Merton, for there he is. Hy!--uncle!” cried William to Merton, who turned instantly and came toward them. “George wants to speak to you,” said William, and shot like a cross-bow bolt behind the house. “That is lucky,” said Merton, “for I want to speak to you.” “Who would have thought of his being about?” muttered George. While George was calling up his courage and wits to open his subject, Mr. Merton, who had no such difficulties, was beforehand with him. “You are threshing out new wheat?” said Merton, gravely. “Yes,” answered George, looking down. “That is a bad lookout; a farmer has no business to go to his barn door for his rent.” “Where is he to go, then? to the church door, and ask for a miracle?” “No; to his ship-fold, to be sure.” “Ay! you can; you have got grass and water and everything to hand.” “And so must you, young man, or you'll never be a farmer. Now, George, I must speak to you seriously” (George winced). “You are a fine lad, and I like you very well, but I love my own daughter better.” “So do I!” said George simply. “And I must look out for her,” resumed Merton. “I have seen a pretty while how things are going here, and if she marries you she will have to keep you instead of you her.” “Heaven forbid! Matters are not so bad as that, uncle.” “You are too much of a man, I hope,” continued Merton, “to eat a woman's bread; and if you are not, I am man enough to keep the girl from it.” “These are hard words to bear,” gasped George. “So near my own house, old man.” “Well, plain speaking is best when the mind is made up,” was the reply. “Is this from Susanna, as well as you?” said George, with a trembling lip, and scarce able to utter the words.