He was engaged to do harvest-work, but he knew that labour was impossible--he went out into the fields and wandered there for hours. When he returned home in the evening, he found that a message had preceded him--Mr James Robson had sent to ask Jenny why her son had not appeared; and had added, moreover, that the lad was getting ‘strange and idle,’ and that he wished the mother would ‘say a word’ to him. Jenny did say a word, she even said many words, with the cold severity that was her manner of greatest displeasure; and she ended by refusing to let Nat have his tea, telling him that she could not afford to give him meals for which he did not work. No doubt, it would have been better if she had avoided that childish punishment, but the sore weight of her own troubles lay upon her heart; and, moreover, it is not always easy for a mother to be certain whether to treat a lad of seventeen like a man or like a child. Nat found himself next morning too sick and depressed to eat; but he would not make any complaint, and went doggedly to his work--not relieved when he was told by his master before the other boys and men that a ‘moocher’ deserved a thrashing, and, if he were _his_ son, would get it too. Mr James Robson intended to give a kindly warning, but a proud nature does not receive warnings well; and although Nat set to work with stubborn earnestness, his resolution only issued from pride and despair. He knew indeed that it would not be difficult to regain his credit as long as he continued to be the Squire’s favourite; but even that thought was a bitter consolation, which could not comfort him in his temporary disgrace. If he should ever fall from the favour of the Squire, he would not again hold up his head amongst his companions. Poor Nat! If any artist had passed by the harvest-field he must have been struck by the sight of his youth and strength, of his well-formed arms with shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and of the beauty of his flushed, sunburnt face. But this picture, so ready for an artist’s hand, was under conditions which might render it less desirable--though the mental torments under which the lad was writhing had not been able to work much outward ravage yet. For the first time Nat felt drawn to forbidden pleasures, to anything that would still the raging thirst of life--he longed to enter the lighted public-house, to sing and dance there, and drink away his fear and shame. His old pride restrained him, that pride of old respectability which is too often the only safe-guard left. He would wait till he saw if the Squire had any suspicion; after _that_ it would not matter what became of him.