Meadows was generally respected; by none more than by old Merton, and during the last few months the intimacy of these two men had ripened into friendship; the corn-factor often hooked his bridle to the old farmer's gate, and took a particular interest in all his affairs. Such was John Meadows. In person he was a tall, stout man, with iron gray hair, a healthy, weather-colored complexion, and a massive brow that spoke to the depth and force of the man's character. “What, taking a look at the farm, Mr. Merton? It wants some of your grass put to it, doesn't it?” “I never thought much of the farm,” was the reply, “it lies cold; the sixty-acre field is well enough, but the land on the hill is as poor as death.” Now this idea, which Merton gave out as his, had dropped into him from Meadows three weeks before. “Farmer,” said Meadows, in an undertone, “they are thrashing out new wheat for the rent.” “You don't say so? Why I didn't hear the flail going.” “They have just knocked off for dinner--you need not say I told you, but Will Fielding was at the bank this morning, trying to get money on their bill, and the bank said No! They had my good word, _too_. The people of the bank sent over to me.” They had his good word! but not his good tone! he had said. “Well, their father was a safe man;” but the accent with which he eulogized the parent had somehow locked the bank cash-box to the children. “I never liked it, especially of late,” mused Merton. “But you see the young folk being cousins--” “That is it, cousins,” put in Meadows; “it is not as if she loved him with all her heart and soul; she is an obedient daughter, isn't she?” “Never gainsaid me in her life; she has a high spirit, but never with me; my word is law. You see, she is a very religious girl, is Susan.” “Well, then, a word from you would save her--but there--all that is your affair, not mine,” added he. “Of course it is,” was the reply. “You are a true friend. I'll step round to the barn and see what is doing.” And away went Susan's father uneasy in his mind. Meadows went to the “Black Horse,” the village public house, to see what farmers wanted to borrow a little money under the rose, and would pawn their wheat ricks, and pay twenty per cent for that overrated merchandise. At the door of the public-house he was met by the village constable, and a stranger of gentlemanly address and clerical appearance. The constable wore a mysterious look and invited Meadows into the parlor of the public-house. “I have news for you, sir,” said he, “leastways I think so; your pocket was picked last Martinmas fair of three Farnborough bank-notes with your name on the back.” “It was!” “Is this one of them?” said the man, producing a note. Meadows examined it with interest, compared the number with a memorandum in his pocketbook, and pronounced that it was. “Who passed it?” inquired he.