And through all, she who was so weak, so timid, so subject, must be firm. She must not flinch. As she sat at table she was conscious of her pale cheeks, and trembled lest the others should notice them. She fancied that her father’s face already wore an ominous gloom. “If you’ve orders for town,” he flung at Miss Peacock as he rose, “you’ll need be quick with them. I’m going in at ten.” Miss Peacock was all of a flutter. “But I thought, sir, that the Bench did not sit——” “You’d best not think,” he retorted. “Ten, I said.” That seemed to promise a blessed respite, and the color returned to Josina’s cheeks. Clement could hardly arrive before eleven, and for this day she might be safe. But on the heels of relief followed reflection. The respite meant another sleepless night, another day of apprehension, more hours of fear; the girl was glad and she was sorry. The spirit warred with the flesh. She did not know what she wished. And, after all, Clement might appear before ten. She watched the clock and watched her father and in returning suspense hung upon his movements. How he lingered, now hunting for a lost paper, now grumbling over a seed-bill, now drawing on his boots with the old horn-handled hooks which had been his father’s! And the clock—how slowly it moved! It wanted eight, it wanted five, it wanted two minutes of ten. The hour struck. And still the Squire loitered outside, talking to old Fewtrell—when at any moment Clement might ride up! The fact was that Thomas was late, and the Squire was saying what he thought of him. “Confound him, he thinks, because he’s going, he can do as he likes!” he fumed. “But I’ll learn him! Let me catch him in the village a week after he leaves, and I’ll jail him for a vagrant! Such impudence as he gave me the other day I never heard in my life! He’ll go wide of here for a character!” “I dunno as I’d say too much to him,” the old bailiff advised. “He’s a queer customer, Squire, as you’d ought to have seen before now!” “He’ll find me a queer customer if he starts spouting again! Why, damme,” irritably, “one might almost think you agreed with him!” Old Fewtrell screwed up his face. “No,” he said slowly, “I’m not saying as I agree with him. But there’s summat in what he says, begging your pardon, Squire.” “Summat? Why, man,” in astonishment, “are you tarred with the same brush?” “You know me, master, better’n that,” the old man replied. “An’ I bin with you fifty years and more. But, certain sure, times is changed and we’re no better for the change.” “But you get as much?”