“Oh,” said Farmer Bolt, reflectively. “Do he? It’s more in my line to work nor to play though.” He loosed the twigs which immediately flew back into place, and Baby Abel, imagining that this was done solely for his benefit cried “Cuckoo!” again, and watched the top of the hedge with dancing eyes. When the farmer, with apparent inadvertence, looked forth again, he threw himself back once more with uproarious laughter, kicking out at the same time with sturdy little feet, clothed in very battered boots. “He do seem a jolly little chap too,” said the elder Abel, with the air of one making a concession. “T’other’s a girl, bain’t it?” “Ees, she’s a girl. I called en Margaret after mother, same as the bwoy be Abel after you. We do think little Abel terr’ble like you, father.” The farmer surveyed his descendant dubiously; and the two pairs of blue eyes met; the child’s twinkled in expectation of the renewal of the game, and by-and-by the old man’s began to twinkle too. As he glanced at the baby, however, his face clouded over. “The maid be a regular Blanchard, though,” he said, in a vexed tone. “Yellow hair an’ all. There, when she do laugh she be the very image of her grammer, what used to drive a little donkey-cart wi’ rags and bwones, an’ sich, an’ what died in the Union.” “The child can’t help that, an’ neither can Ned,” said Alice, with a sudden flash in her eyes. “The poor body did die when he were quite a little chap. ’Twas none of his fault if she did die in the Union. So soon as he could work he kept hisself.” “It mid be none of his fault that his mother was what she was, but I d’ ’low ’tis your fault that my grandson should be what he is, belonging to trampin’ folks, wi’ a father as was born i’ the Union, and as’ll die i’ the Union I shouldn’t wonder. Did ever anybody see a ’ooman so downtrod as what you be, an’ you as was such a handsome maid. Why can’t the chap keep ye in a bit more comfort now he’s got ye? That’s what I want to know.” “We’ve had a deal o’ trouble, father,” faltered Alice. “What wi’ the childer comin’ so fast, an’ what wi’ Ned breakin’ his leg this spring, we’ve been put about terr’ble.” “Well, there’s no use cryin’ about spilt milk,” said her father, roughly. “Ye took the crooked stick an’ now ye must put up wi’ en. You as mid ha’ married as well an’ better nor any maid i’ the place, ye must go an’ take up wi’ a beggarly feller as I hired out o’ charity to begin wi’.” “Ned always worked hard for his wage,” interpolated Alice, hotly, “always! He was worth the money ye paid en.” “Ees, but I didn’t know that at first. I took en straight fro’ the Union wi’out no more character nor what the master up yonder could give en. An’ when I did do that I didn’t look to bein’ robbed o’ my only child. There, there’s no use talkin’. I must get on wi’ my work. Get along and chat wi’ mother if ye want to.”