AFTER the family dinner, at which the farmer’s guest displayed more than his usual powers of appetite, Kenelm followed his host towards the stackyard, and said,—
“My dear Mr. Saunderson, though you have no longer any work for me to do, and I ought not to trespass further on your hospitality, yet if I might stay with you another day or so, I should be very grateful.”
“My dear lad,” cried the farmer, in whose estimation Kenelm had risen prodigiously since the victory over Tom Bowles, “you are welcome to stay as long as you like, and we shall be all sorry when you go. Indeed, at all events, you must stay over Saturday, for you shall go with us to the squire’s harvest-supper. It will be a pretty sight, and my girls are already counting on you for a dance.”
“Saturday,—the day after to-morrow. You are very kind; but merrymakings are not much in my way, and I think I shall be on my road before you set off to the Squire’s supper.”
“Pooh! you shall stay; and, I say, young ‘un, if you want more to do, I have a job for you quite in your line.”
“What is it?”
“Thrash my ploughman. He has been insolent this morning, and he is the biggest fellow in the county, next to Tom Bowles.”
Here the farmer laughed heartily, enjoying his own joke.
“Thank you for nothing,” said Kenelm, rubbing his bruises. “A burnt child dreads the fire.”
The young man wandered alone into the fields. The day was becoming overcast, and the clouds threatened rain. The air was exceedingly still; the landscape, missing the sunshine, wore an aspect of gloomy solitude. Kenelm came to the banks of the rivulet not far from the spot on which the farmer had first found him. There he sat down, and leaned his cheek on his hand, with eyes fixed on the still and darkened stream lapsing mournfully away: sorrow entered into his heart and tinged its musings.