“Certainly,” he said inly, “certainly I must lick Tom Bowles; yet stay, perhaps after all she likes him.” “But,” he continued aloud, “you do not see how I can be of any service to you. Before I explain, let me ask which of the men in the field is Tom Bowles?” “Tom Bowles?” exclaimed Jessie, in a tone of surprise and alarm, and turning pale as she looked hastily round; “you frightened me, sir: but he is not here; he does not work in the fields. But how came you to hear of Tom Bowles?” “Dine with me and I’ll tell you. Look, there is a quiet place in yon corner under the thorn-trees by that piece of water. See, they are leaving off work: I will go for a can of beer, and then, pray, let me join you there.” Jessie paused for a moment as if doubtful still; then again glancing at Kenelm, and assured by the grave kindness of his countenance, uttered a scarce audible assent and moved away towards the thorn-trees. As the sun now stood perpendicularly over their heads, and the hand of the clock in the village church tower, soaring over the hedgerows, reached the first hour after noon, all work ceased in a sudden silence: some of the girls went back to their homes; those who stayed grouped together, apart from the men, who took their way to the shadows of a large oak-tree in the hedgerow, where beer kegs and cans awaited them. CHAPTER XI. “AND now,” said Kenelm, as the two young persons, having finished their simple repast, sat under the thorn-trees and by the side of the water, fringed at that part with tall reeds through which the light summer breeze stirred with a pleasant murmur, “now I will talk to you about Tom Bowles. Is it true that you don’t like that brave young fellow? I say young, as I take his youth for granted.” “Like him! I hate the sight of him.” “Did you always hate the sight of him? You must surely at one time have allowed him to think that you did not?” The girl winced, and made no answer, but plucked a daffodil from the soil, and tore it ruthlessly to pieces. “I am afraid you like to serve your admirers as you do that ill-fated flower,” said Kenelm, with some severity of tone. “But concealed in the flower you may sometimes find the sting of a bee. I see by your countenance that you did not tell Tom Bowles that you hated him till it was too late to prevent his losing his wits for you.” “No; I was n’t so bad as that,” said Jessie, looking, nevertheless, rather ashamed of herself; “but I was silly and giddy-like, I own; and, when he first took notice of me, I was pleased, without thinking much of it, because, you see, Mr. Bowles (emphasis on _Mr._) is higher up than a poor girl like me. He is a tradesman, and I am only a shepherd’s daughter; though, indeed, Father is more like Mr. Saunderson’s foreman than a mere shepherd. But I never thought anything serious of it, and did not suppose he did; that is, at first.” “So Tom Bowles is a tradesman. What trade?” “A farrier, sir.” “And, I am told, a very fine young man.”