“That's right, boy; stick up to her!” and he chuckled and munched together in a way which it made Gilbert sick to hear. The tail of the lean herring on his plate remained untasted; he swallowed the thin tea which Miss Ann poured out, and the heavy “half-Indian” bread with a choking sensation. He had but one desire,--to get away from the room, out of human sight and hearing. Barton, ill at ease, and avoiding Gilbert's eye, accompanied him to the lane. He felt that the old man's garrulity ought to be explained, but knew not what to say. Gilbert spared him the trouble-- “When are we to wish you joy, Barton?” he asked, in a cold, hard voice. Barton laughed in a forced way, clutched at his tawny whisker, and with something like a flush on his heavy face, answered in what was meant to be an indifferent tone: “Oh, it's a joke of the old man's--don't mean anything.” “It seems to be a joke of the whole neighborhood, then; I have heard it from others.” “Have you?” Barton eagerly asked. “Do people talk about it much? What do they say?” This exhibition of vulgar vanity, as he considered it, was so repulsive to Gilbert, in his desperate, excited condition, that for a moment he did not trust himself to speak. Holding the bridle of his horse, he walked mechanically down the slope, Barton following him. Suddenly he stopped, faced the latter, and said, in a stern voice: “I must know, first, whether you are betrothed to Martha Deane.” His manner was so unexpectedly solemn and peremptory that Barton, startled from his self-possession, stammered,-- “N-no: that is, not yet.” Another pause. Barton, curious to know how far gossip had already gone, repeated the question: “Well, what do people say?” “Some, that you and she will be married,” Gilbert answered, speaking slowly and with difficulty, “and some that you won't. Which are right?” “Damme, if _I_ know!” Barton exclaimed, returning to his customary swagger. It was quite enough that the matter was generally talked about, and he had said nothing to settle it, in either way. But his manner, more than his words, convinced Gilbert that there was no betrothal as yet, and that the vanity of being regarded as the successful suitor of a lovely girl had a more prominent place than love, in his rival's heart. By so much was his torture lightened, and the passion of the moment subsided, after having so nearly betrayed itself. “I say, Gilbert,” Barton presently remarked, walking on towards the bars which led into the meadow-field; “it's time you were looking around in that way, hey?” “It will be time enough when I am out of debt.” “But you ought, now, to have a wife in your house.” “I have a mother, Barton.” “That's true, Gilbert. Just as I have a father. The old man's queer, as you saw--kept me out of marrying; when I was young, and now drives me to it. I might ha' had children grown”--