"Joseph, I am so very sorry! They have made two of your shirts, and the plaits are the large ones you say you don't like." "Then they'll just unmake them," retorted Tod, in a temper. We were sitting round the table at tea, Mrs. Todhetley having ordered some tea to be made while she went upstairs. She came down without her bonnet, and had changed her best gown for the one she mostly wore at home: it had two shades in it, and shone like the copper tea-kettle. The Squire was not expected home yet, and we were to dine an hour later than usual. "That Miss Timmens is not worth her salt," fired Tod, helping himself to some thin bread-and-butter. "What business has she to go and make my shirts wrong?" "I fear the fault lies with me, Joseph, not with Miss Timmens. I had given her the pattern shirt, which has large plaits, you know, before you said you would prefer---- Oh, we hardly want the lamp yet, Thomas!" broke off the mater, as old Thomas came in with the lighted lamp. "I'm sure we do, then," cried Tod. "I can't see which side's butter and which bread." "And I, not thinking Miss Timmens would put them in hand at once, did not send to her as soon as you spoke, Joseph," went on the mater, as Thomas settled the lamp on the table. "I am very sorry, my dear; but it is only two. The rest shall be done as you wish." Something, apart from the shirts, had put Tod out. I had seen it as soon as we got in. For one thing, he had meant to go to Pershore: and the pater, not knowing it, started without him. "Let them unmake the two," growled Tod. "But it would be a great pity, Joseph. They are very nicely done; the stitching's beautiful. I really don't think it will signify." "_You_ don't, perhaps. You may like odd things. A pig with one ear, for example." "A what, Joseph?" she asked, not catching the last simile. "I said a pig with one ear. No doubt you do like it. You are looking like one now, ma'am." The words made me gaze at Mrs. Todhetley, for the tone bore some personal meaning, and then I saw what Tod meant: an earring was absent. The lamp-light shone on the flashing diamonds, the bright pink topaz of the one earring; but the other ear was bare and empty. "You have lost one of your earrings, mother!" She put her hands to her ears, and started up in alarm. These earrings were very valuable: they had been left to her, when she was a child, in some old lady's will, and constituted her chief possession in jewellery worth boasting of. Not once in a twelvemonth did she venture to put them on; but she had got them out to-day for the christening. Whether it was that I had gazed at the earrings when I was a little fellow and sat in her lap, I don't know; but I never saw any that I liked so well. The pink topaz was in a long drop, the slender rim of gold that encircled it being set with diamonds. Mrs. Todhetley said they were worth fifty guineas: and perhaps they were. The glittering white of the diamonds round the pink was beautiful to look upon.