Not a few young servant-girls, selected by Mr. Goring rather for their appearance than their disposition, had been dismissed from his service, after violent and wrathful scenes, for being caught teasing this unfortunate; and even the cook, a female of the most taciturn and sombre temper, was compelled to treat him with comparative consideration. The gossips of Nevilton swore, as one may believe, that the farmer, in being kind to this boy, was only obeying the mandate of nature; but no one who had ever beheld Bert’s mother, gave the least credence to such a story. Another of Mr. Goring’s softer aspects was his mania for tame rabbits. These he kept in commodious and spacious hutches at the back of his house, and every year wonderful and interesting additions were added to their number. On this particular morning both the farmer and his idiot were absorbed and rapt in contemplation before the gambols of two large new pets--great silky lop-eared things--who had arrived the night before. Mr. Goring was feeding them with fresh lettuces, carefully handed to him by his assistant, who divested these plants of their rough outer leaves and dried them on the palms of his hands. “The little ’un do lap ’em up fastest, master,” remarked the boy. “I mind how those others, with them girt ears, did love a fresh lettuce.” Mr. Goring watched with mute satisfaction the quivering nostrils and nibbling mouth of the dainty voracious creature. “Mustn’t let them have more than three at a time, Bert,” he remarked. “But they do love them, as you say.” “What be going to call this little ’un, master?” asked the boy. Mr. Goring straightened his back and drew a deep breath. “What do you think, Bert, my boy?” he cried, in a husky excited tone, prodding his assistant jocosely with the handle of his riding-whip; “What do you think? What would you call her?” “Ah! I knew she were a she, master!” chuckled the idiot. “I knew that, afore she were out of the packer-case! Call ’er?” and the boy leered an indescribable leer. “By gum! I can tell ’ee that fast enough. Call ’er Missy Lacrima, pretty little Missy Lacrima, wot lives up at the House, and wot is going to be missus ’ere afore long.” Mr. Goring surveyed his protégé for a moment with sublime contentment, and then humorously flicked at his ears with his whip. “Right! my imp of Satan. Right! my spawn of Belial. That is just what I _was_ thinking.” “She be silky and soft to handle,” went on the idiot, “and her, up at the House, be no contrary, or I’m darned mistaken.” Mr. Goring expressed his satisfaction at his friend’s intelligence by giving him a push that nearly threw him backwards. “And I’ll tell you this, my boy,” he remarked confidentially, surveying the long line of well-filled hutches, “we’ve never yet bought such a rabbit, as this foreign one will turn out, or you and I be damned fools.”