He strode on now and presently burst impetuously into the family living-room. Alice and his wife were sitting on either side of the fire; little Abel had fallen fast asleep in his tiny chair, his curly head drooping at a most uncomfortable angle over the arm. The farmer stopped abruptly at sight of him. “What’s that child doing here at this time o’ the evening?” he enquired, roughly. “He did beg so hard to sit up till granfer come back,” explained Mrs Bolt, “we had to let en bide. There, nothin’ ’ud satisfy him. I give him his sugar-stick, but that wouldn’t do. He said he must stop up an’ smoke his pipe wi’ granfer. He’s been a-savin’ it till ye come—there’s but just the leastest little corner bit off, look-see.” But granfer did not look. He sat heavily down in his chair and glared at Alice, who was knitting a woollen comforter. “What be doin’?” he enquired, savagely. She glanced up with a smile. “You mustn’t look,” she said. “It’s a Christmas present.” “Ye be a-goin’ to send it out to Ned in Ameriky, I suppose,” he suggested sarcastically. “It’s not for Ned,” returned Alice quickly, and Mrs Bolt added in a reproachful tone:— “The poor maid be a-makin’ it for you, father.” There was a pause, during which the farmer recalled his injury and resolved not to be mollified. “Christmas,” he said slowly. “Christmas. I d’ ’low Ned ’ull feel hisself a bit lonely spendin’ Christmas in Ameriky. Ye’d best write an’ tell en to come back an’ spend it wi’ us.” This was the scheme which the farmer had elaborated during his ireful descent of the lane. He would tell Alice to send for her husband, and she, carrying out her former plan of action, would pretend to write to America and invite him to return, but as soon as Ned appeared he would find he had met his match. Farmer Bolt would desire him and his family to emmygrate out o’ that house, and never set foot in it again. “That’ll surprise ’em all a bit, I d’ ’low,” said Mr Bolt vengefully to himself. He did not look at Alice as he spoke, half fearful of prematurely betraying his anger; but after a moment, finding she did not reply, he wheeled in his chair with an enquiring glance. Alice had dropped her work on her lap and was leaning forward, gazing at him with eyes that were full of tears. “Well?” he asked impatiently. Before he realised what she was about she had risen from her chair and thrown her arms round his neck. “Oh, father,” she cried. “Oh, father, I can’t bear it! You’re so good—so good to me, an’ I’ve been that wicked and deceitful!” As she uttered the last word, the farmer, who at first had struggled to free himself, became suddenly passive in her embrace. “I have, I have,” she went on, sobbing. “There, mother, I be a-goin’ to tell en everything. I couldn’t go on actin’ lies when he be so kind. Oh, father, I’ve deceived ye shameful. Ned isn’t in Ameriky at all—he never emmygrated. ’Twas jist a made-up story.”