Mr. Leafchild half suspected what had occurred--that Sir John must, in some way, have become acquainted with the state of affairs. He judged so by the cold, haughty tone of the note: hitherto Sir John had always shown himself friendly. Far from being put out, Mr. Leafchild hoped it was so, and went on with his breakfast. Another interruption. Mrs. Bean this time. She wore a mob cap and had lost her teeth. "Here's that tipsy Jones come to the door, sir. He says you told him to come." "Ah yes, I did; let him come in," said the curate. "Is he tipsy this morning?" "No, sir, only shaky. And what shall I order you for dinner, sir, to-day? I may as well ask, as I am here." "That will do," he answered, pointing to the cold meat. "And please mash the potatoes." Jones came in. The man was not an incorrigibly bad doer, but weak and irresolute. If he worked two days, he idled and drank three, and his wife and children suffered. Mr. Leafchild, who felt more sorrow for him than anger, invited him to a seat by the fire, and talked to him long and persuasively, almost as one brother might talk to another, and gave him a hot cup of tea. Jones went away great in promises and penitence: and about eleven o'clock the curate betook himself to the Hall. Of all men living, the Squire perhaps excepted, Sir John was about the worst to carry out any troublesome negotiation. He was good-hearted, irresolute, and quick-tempered. When Mr. Leafchild was shown in, Sir John utterly forgot certain speeches he had conned over in his mind, broke down, went into a passion, and told the curate he was a designing, impudent villain. Though his love for Helen, and that was intense, caused him to feel somewhat agitated in the presence of Helen's father, Mr. Leafchild's manner was quiet and calm, a very contrast to that of Sir John. After a little while, when the baronet had talked himself cool, Mr. Leafchild entered into a history of the affair: telling how he and Miss Whitney had met without any intention of any kind, except of that which might be connected with the parish interests, and how with as little intention, a mutual liking--nay, a _love_--had sprung up. "Yes, that's all very fine," said Sir John, shuffling about his steel spectacles that were perched on his old red nose. "You knew she was my daughter; you knew well what you were about." The young man reddened at the reproach. "Sir, indeed you misjudge me. I never thought of such a thing as falling in love with Miss Whitney until the love had come. Had she been the most obscure of young women, it would have been all the same." "Then you are an idiot for your pains," retorted Sir John. "Why, goodness gracious me! have you not _one_ single atom of common sense? Can't you see how unfitting it is?" "My family is a very good one; in point of fact, as good as yours, Sir John--if you will pardon me for saying so thus pointedly," urged the curate in his gentle voice. "And though----"