“I rob the landlord of nothing,” replied the farmer. “I pay a good, fair rent; but I don’t want to quit the old spot. And if you had not thrust yourself into this affair, you would have had nothing to lay on your conscience concerning it. I must, let me tell you, look on it as a piece of unwarrantable impertinence to come thus to my house and be kindly treated only to turn Judas against me.”
The word Judas seemed to hit the Friend a great blow.
“A Judas!”
“Yes—a Judas! a real Judas!” exclaimed the wife. “Who could have thought it!”
“Nay, nay,” said the old man. “I am no Judas. It is true, I forced myself into it; and if you pay the landlord an honest rent, why, I don’t know that it is any business of mine—at least while you live.”
“That is all we want,” replied the farmer, his countenance changing, and again flinging himself by his wife on his knees by the bed. “Promise us never to reveal it while we live, and we shall be quite satisfied. We have no children, and when we go, those may come to th’ old spot who will.”
“Promise me never to practice this trick again,” said John Basford.
“We promise faithfully,” rejoined both farmer and wife.
“Then I promise too,” said the Friend, “that not a whisper of what has passed here shall pass my lips during your lifetime.”
With warmest expressions of thanks, the farmer and his wife withdrew; and John Basford, having cleared the chamber of its mystery, lay down and passed one of the sweetest nights he ever enjoyed.