Dorothy was not unwilling to find herself mistress there, but she had always a lingering hope that Humphrey would at last be a victim to her charms, and then it would be easy to throw George over. But things did not look very promising, and Dorothy asked, in an irritable tone, before she parted with her aunt for the night,-- 'Is Humphrey so taken up with the grand folk that he cannot find the time to pay his dutiful respects to you, aunt?' 'He was here late the last evening,' Mistress Ratcliffe said, 'and is, with George, anxious to furnish Mr Sidney with the pick of the horses in the stable. Humphrey can scarce stir from Mr Sidney.' 'So it seems,' Dorothy said. 'Methinks, where there's a will there's a way; but we shall have his company in London.' 'Yes, and George's also. You will favour my poor boy's suit, Doll.' 'Your poor boy! nay, aunt, he is not worthy of pity, when he wins favour from a peerless beauty like Mistress Forrester. But let be, it will not break my heart if he gives you this fair country maid for your daughter, who has not--so I have heard--so much as a brass farthing to call her own.' Deeply chagrined, and with an uneasy suspicion that Dorothy might be right in what she said, Mistress Ratcliffe left her niece to repose, saying to herself, 'She has a tongue and a temper of her own, but we will soon tame her when we get her here.' CHAPTER IV THE HAWK AND THE BIRD 'So doth the fox the lamb destroy we see, The lion fierce, the beaver, roe or gray, The hawk the fowl, the greater wrong the less, The lofty proud the lowly poor oppress.' JOHN DAVIES, 1613. When George left Lucy at the door of Ford Place, she ran quickly through the kitchen, where Mistress Forrester was resting on the settle after the labours of the day. Things had not gone well with the sick lambs, both were dead, and one of the cart-horses had gone lame, and the eggs of the pea-hen were addled. These circumstances were not likely to sweeten Mistress Forrester's temper, and Lucy, who never bore malice, received a sharp answer in reply to her inquiries as to the condition of the lambs. 'They are dead, and much you care, flaunting off with your lover instead of turning your hand to help at home.' 'I could not have saved the lambs' lives,' Lucy said, 'but I am sorry they are dead. I am sorry when any creature dies.' 'I dare say! Be off to bed, for I am locking up in a minute.' 'Where is Mary?' Lucy asked. 'A-bed. That boy has cut his little finger, or some such thing. Lor'! she was like to swoon with terror when she saw the blood; the child himself was not such a coward.' Lucy hastened upstairs, and found Mary by the window in her favourite seat. A book lay open on her knee, and, when Lucy came in, she held up her hand, and, pointing to the bed, said,-- 'Hush! he is asleep.' 'What has happened?' Lucy said. 'Is the boy hurt?'