“_And_ a green-house full of peaches--and green peas all the year round. “_And_ a pew in the church warmed with biling eau de Cologne. “_And_ a carpet a foot thick. “_And_ a piano-forte in every blessed room in the house. But this island is the Dead Sea to a poor man.” He then, diverging from the rhetorical to the metropolitan style, proposed to his friend “to open one eye. That will show you this hole you are in is all poor hungry arable ground. You know you can't work it to a profit.” (George winced.) “No! steal, borrow, or beg 500 pounds. Carry out a cargo of pea-jackets and fourpenny bits to swap for gold-dust, a few tools, a stout heart, and a light pair of--'Oh, no; we never mention them; their name is never heard'--and we'll soon fill both pockets with the shiney in California.” All this Mr. Robinson delivered with a volubility to which Berkshire had hitherto been a stranger. “A crust of bread in England before buffalo beef in California,” was George's reply; but it was not given in that assured tone with which he would have laughed at Robinson's eloquence a week ago. “I could not live with all those thieves and ruffians that are settled down there like crows on a dead horse; but I thank you kindly, my lad, all the same,” said the tender-hearted young man. “Strange,” thought he, “that so many should sing me the same tune,” and he fell back into his reverie. Here they were all summoned to dinner, with a dash of asperity, by Sarah the stout farm servant. Susan lingered an instant to speak to George. She chose an unfortunate topic. She warned him once more against Mr. Robinson. “My father says that he has no business nor trade, and he is not a gentleman, in spite of his red and green cravat, so he must be a rogue of some sort.” “Shall I tell you his greatest fault?” was the bitter reply. “He is my friend; he is the only creature that has spoken kind words to me to-day. Oh! I saw how cross you looked at him.” Susan's eyes flashed, and the color rose in her cheek, and the water in her eyes. “You are a fool, George,” said she; “you don't know how to read a woman, nor her looks, nor her words either.” And Susan was very angry and disdainful, and did not speak to George all dinner-time. As for poor George, he followed her into the house with a heart both sick and heavy. This Berkshire farmer had a proud and sensitive nature under a homely crust. Old Merton's words had been iron passing through his soul, and besides he felt as if everything was turning cold and slippery and gliding from his hand. He shivered with vague fears, and wished the sun would set at one o'clock and the sorrowful day come to an end. CHAPTER II. THE meal passed almost in silence; Robinson was too hungry to say a word, and a weight hung upon George and Susan.