"They must e'en die," said he before sundown, with tears in his eyes—and that night Jep wept in the dewy orchard, one hand in wee Margaret's, the other stroking Spottie, with a sore smarting back and the squire's angry dismissal making his heart equally sore and smarting. Master Ru received a reprimand, but then he was a spoilt only son, and a gentleman, while Jep was a poor lad, and should have stuck to duty—so said the squire.
This escapade was but the beginning of troubles, for, as the winter deepened, Jep's father fell ill, and the squire frowned and fumed, and never spoke civilly to Jep when he called at the cottage, where the lad hung about in disgraced idleness.
"We shall have to sell Spottie!" said his mother, in her downheartedness at the expense and poverty falling on her, and the words hung like a weight at her son's heart. Sell Spottie! the children's souls clung to him.
"Father, that pet lamb of Jep Sharp's is more mine than his, you know," is what the squire's son said to him about that time.
"No my son, I gave it to him, and a gift is a gift," spoke the squire in his justice.
"Then buy him for me, father."
"I doubt if the lad would sell it," said the squire.
"Yes, he would; you could make him." His son was importunate; this was his cry, morning, noon, and night; and, at last, his indulgent parent walked to the cottage, to see what could be done.
"I want to buy your son's lamb for mine," said the great man, loftily, to Jep's mother.