“But it is time to turn homewards,” said George, as they were merrily laughing over the late education of Squire Norton, of Peafield. “Ah! but here is another original.” “Good-day to you, Mr. Woodburn,” said a jolly, rosy farmer, with a broad, merry, and humorous smile on his face, as he stood setting wide his field-gate for a loaded hay-waggon to come out. After a few good-humoured words with Farmer Thatcher—as they rode on, George said,—“Now there is a man who is a man in his place, and who does not want to be out of it. He is a genuine through and through farmer, and nothing more nor less. Honest, and genial as the day is long; he loves a joke as he loves his pot of beer and his harvest dish of broad beans and fat bacon; but his jokes are never at the expense of a neighbour, but rather of himself. He says, when he wants warm weather, he puts his flannel-waistcoat on, and then, he says, it is sure to come to try to plague him: and he goes out without an umbrella when he wants rain, and it is sure to come and try to gi’ him the rheumatiz. He won’t have a blanket taken off his bed in spring, because, he says, it will immediately turn cold, and he should spoil all the crops in the country. These are his jokes, for things really seem to happen to us thus oddly; but the country fellows here believe him in earnest, and say he certainly is the weather-wisest man hereabout and far away.” With such light-hearted discourse the three found themselves back at Woodburn Grange for dinner, which was set out, as usual in the warm weather, in the house-place. All feelings of sadness or foreboding had vanished. Letty was as beaming and blithe as usual, and Harry Thorsby was overflowing with fun. As Betty Trapps waited at table, Thorsby could not refrain from trying a fresh word or two with her. “Why, Betty,” he said, “you did not wait to hear what a good end your friend Mrs. Ayre made. I assure you it was very edifying.” Betty said she did not wish to hear Mr. Thorsby jest on sacred subjects. “I wish now,” said Thorsby, “I was half as learned as you, Betty, in the Bible. Come now, tell me this: What was the reason that Jacob on his death-bed, said ‘Bless the lads,’ but said nothing about the lasses?” Betty was doggedly silent. “Do you give it up, Betty?” asked Thorsby; “do you give it up?” Betty still maintained a disdainful silence, wiping a plate very briskly with a napkin, and handing it to one of the company. “It was, then,” said Thorsby, “because Jacob left the lads to bless the lasses.” Jacob’s logic tickled Letty wonderfully—she laughed aloud, and the graver Ann smiled demurely, and the rest looked much amused.