“O, Tom, I hope all ’ll turn out well, but sure enough I ha’ misgivings.”
“What be it, my dear? Mr. Prigg say we shall win—how can ur do better ’an thic?”
“Shall we get back the pigs and sheep, Tom?”
“Why not?”
Mrs. Bumpkin looked into her lap, and folding her apron very smooth with both hands, answered:
“I doan’t think, Tom, that man looks like bringing anything back. He be very chuffy and masterful, and looks all round as he goo away, as though he wur lookin’ to see what ur would take next. I think he’ll have un all, Tom.”
“Stuff!” said Mr. Bumpkin, “he be sellin’ for I, take what ur may.”
“He be sellin’ thee, Tom, I think, and I’d stop un from takin’ more.”
They rose to go to bed, and as Mrs. Bumpkin looked at the cosy old hearth, and put up the embers of the log to make it safe for the night, it seemed as if the prosperity of their old home had burnt down at last to dull ashes, and she looked sadly at the vacant place where Joe had used to sit.