“I think, Phil, that father was a little hard upon him, to hold him up to the ridicule of all the farm people, and then to drive him forth to be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood.”
“Oh, I don’t know; it’s no more than he deserves. The lad is always up to mischief, and has been an endless source of trouble and anxiety to us. If I could have had my way I would have got rid of him long ago.”
Seven o’clock came, and Mr. Jamblin, the elder, returned to the farmhouse again.
“So that impudent young scamp aint returned yet, it seems,” cried the farmer. “He be making a long stop on it.”
“I hope he will come back,” said his daughter, in a tone of sadness.
“You hope! What do you hope for? If he does come back he shan’t stop, I tell ’ee that. I’ll see the squire, and get shot of un.”
“Have a little more patience with him. He won’t be so wilful after a bit.”
“Patience, gell! I dunno what thee art thinkin’ about. I think we’ve all had patience enough. Wilful! He’ll mend as much as small beer is likely to do in harvest time. Some on us will ha’ to break un of his bad habits. I aint much yoose at that, it would seem.”
“But when he returns you will wait awhile, and try him a little longer?” said Patty, coaxingly, winding her arms round the old man’s neck.
“Umph! ye be a wheedling lass,” he returned. “Very well, I will wait and see if he be likely to change. Say no more, gell. You know better than what I do what a fool ye can mek o’ yer old father. Say no more; ye shall ha’ yer own way in this as in all other things.”