“I know I’m behind with the interest,” said Mr Moss, “but I was so unlucky wi’ the wool last year; and what with the Missis being laid up so, things have gone awk’arder nor usual.” “Ay,” snarled Mr Tulliver, “there’s folks as things ’ull allays go awk’ard with; empty sacks ’ull never stand upright.” “Well, I don’t know what fault you’ve got to find wi’ me, Mr Tulliver,” said Mr Moss, deprecatingly; “I know there isn’t a day-labourer works harder.” “What’s the use o’ that,” said Mr Tulliver, sharply, “when a man marries, and’s got no capital to work his farm but his wife’s bit o’ fortin? I was against it from the first; but you’d neither of you listen to me. And I can’t lie out o’ my money any longer, for I’ve got to pay five hundred o’ Mrs Glegg’s, and there’ll be Tom an expense to me. I should find myself short, even saying I’d got back all as is my own. You must look about and see how you can pay me the three hundred pound.” “Well, if that’s what you mean,” said Mr Moss, looking blankly before him, “we’d better be sold up, and ha’ done with it; I must part wi’ every head o’ stock I’ve got, to pay you and the landlord too.” Poor relations are undeniably irritating,—their existence is so entirely uncalled for on our part, and they are almost always very faulty people. Mr Tulliver had succeeded in getting quite as much irritated with Mr Moss as he had desired, and he was able to say angrily, rising from his seat,— “Well, you must do as you can. _I_ can’t find money for everybody else as well as myself. I must look to my own business and my own family. I can’t lie out o’ my money any longer. You must raise it as quick as you can.” Mr Tulliver walked abruptly out of the arbour as he uttered the last sentence, and, without looking round at Mr Moss, went on to the kitchen door, where the eldest boy was holding his horse, and his sister was waiting in a state of wondering alarm, which was not without its alleviations, for baby was making pleasant gurgling sounds, and performing a great deal of finger practice on the faded face. Mrs Moss had eight children, but could never overcome her regret that the twins had not lived. Mr Moss thought their removal was not without its consolations. “Won’t you come in, brother?” she said, looking anxiously at her husband, who was walking slowly up, while Mr Tulliver had his foot already in the stirrup. “No, no; good-by,” said he, turning his horse’s head, and riding away.