“I never thought much of the farm,” was the reply, “it lies cold; the sixty-acre field is well enough, but the land on the hill is as poor as death.”
Now this idea, which Merton gave out as his, had dropped into him from Meadows three weeks before.
“Farmer,” said Meadows, in an undertone, “they are thrashing out new wheat for the rent.”
“You don't say so? Why I didn't hear the flail going.”
“They have just knocked off for dinner—you need not say I told you, but Will Fielding was at the bank this morning, trying to get money on their bill, and the bank said No! They had my good word, too. The people of the bank sent over to me.”
They had his good word! but not his good tone! he had said. “Well, their father was a safe man;” but the accent with which he eulogized the parent had somehow locked the bank cash-box to the children.
“I never liked it, especially of late,” mused Merton. “But you see the young folk being cousins—”
“That is it, cousins,” put in Meadows; “it is not as if she loved him with all her heart and soul; she is an obedient daughter, isn't she?”
“Never gainsaid me in her life; she has a high spirit, but never with me; my word is law. You see, she is a very religious girl, is Susan.”
“Well, then, a word from you would save her—but there—all that is your affair, not mine,” added he.