Stafford, indeed, grew pale with anger. It was a billet-doux from his master to Rose, which Sir Hyacinth entreated might be kept secret, promising to make her fortune and marry her well, if she would only have compassion upon a man who adored and was dying for her, &c. “I will never see my master again,” exclaimed Stafford. “I could not see him without the danger of doing something that I might not forgive myself. He a gentleman! He a gentleman! I’ll gallop off and leave his letters, and his horse, with some of his people. I’ll never see him again. If he does not pay me a farthing of my seven years’ wages, I don’t care; I will not sleep in his house another night. He a gentleman!” Farmer Gray was delighted by Stafford’s generous indignation; which appeared the more striking, as his manner was usually sober, and remarkably civil. All this happened at two o’clock in the afternoon; and the evening of the same day he returned to Rosanna. Rose was sitting at work, in the seat of the cottage window. When she saw him at the little white gate, her colour gave notice to her brothers who was coming, and they ran out to meet him. “You ought to shut your doors against me now, instead of running out to meet me,” said he; “for I am not clear that I have a farthing in the world, except what is in this portmanteau. I have been fool enough to leave all I have earned in the hands of _a gentleman_, who can give me only his bond for my wages. But I am glad I am out of his house, at any rate.” “And I am glad you are in mine,” said farmer Gray, receiving him with a warmth of hospitality which brought tears of gratitude into Stafford’s eyes. Rose smiled upon her father, and said nothing; but set him his arm-chair, and was very busy arranging the tea-table. Mrs. Gray beckoned to her guest, and made him sit down beside her; telling him he should have as good tea at Rosanna as ever he had in Warwickshire; “and out of Staffordshire ware, too,” said she, taking her best Wedgwood teacups and saucers out of a cupboard. Robin, who was naturally gay and fond of rallying his friends, could not forbear affecting to express his surprise at Stafford’s preferring an Irishwoman, of all women in the world. “Are you quite sure, Stafford,” said he, “that you are not mistaken? Are you sure my sister has not wings on her shoulders?” “Have you done now, Robin?” said his mother; who saw that Stafford was a good deal abashed, and had no answer ready. “If Mr. Stafford had a prejudice against us Irish, so much the more honourable for my Rose to have conquered it; and, as to wings, they would have been no shame to us natives, supposing we had them; and of course it was no affront to attribute them to us. Have not the angels themselves wings?”