great drawback, he well knew; but he had the reputation of being an excellent practical farmer, which made him entertain strong hopes of being employed as a bailiff, or overseer, on some gentleman's estate.

He trusted that Lord Wilton would assist him in procuring such a situation, and, probably, would employ him on his own property, in return for the service he had rendered his son.

He knew that his father was a close calculator of domestic expenditure; that he would soon be tired of keeping such a large addition to his family, without receiving an equivalent from them in money or services. He might grumble now and then of having to board him and his wife gratis; but the additional expense of Mrs. Rowly and the servant, for any length of time, would make him outrageous.

In everything pertaining to household matters, Sophia was as ignorant as a child. She had been brought up to catch a rich husband, not to soil her pretty white hands with work, to spend her time before the glass in adorning her person, or to lie on a sofa reading novels. He had urged her, before leaving London, to part with Martha, but she obstinately refused to do so.

"The idea of waiting upon herself," she said, "was not to be tolerated for a moment. Martha's term of apprenticeship had not expired, and she was bound to keep her. And as to dear mamma, she must accompany them, for she had no money to procure a lodging elsewhere."

What was to be done with such impracticable people, was beyond Gilbert's power to devise. He turned and tossed all night, and the day broke and found him as undecided as ever.

In the morning he walked out after breakfast to the hay-field with his father, and had an excellent opportunity of getting the trouble that perplexed him off his mind, but his courage failed him altogether, and he put off the dreaded disclosure that he was utterly destitute from day to day.

His wife at last suggested that he had better tell his mother, and leave it to her to break the matter to Mr. Rushmere, entreating him, at the same time, to spare her in the relation as much as he possibly could.

Since the day of their arrival at Heath Farm, Mrs. Rushmere had rapidly declined, and was now entirely confined to her own room, which Dorothy never left, without it was to arrange with Polly the cooking and the necessary work of the day.

Gilbert generally went up to spend an hour with his mother during the absence of her kind nurse, and in one of these interviews, he informed her of his humiliating position, and implored her advice and assistance in his present emergency.

Mrs. Rushmere was greatly distressed by his communication. Simple and natural as a child herself, she possessed a great insight into character, and though she seldom saw either of the women with whom her son had unfortunately connected himself, she had read their characters, and foresaw, in case of her death, the miserable life that her dear old partner would lead with either of them as mistress of the house.

Dorothy, of course, would have to leave, directly she had followed her to the grave. She reproached herself for keeping the poor girl in her present disagreeable position, but Dorothy had promised her to put up with every insult and slight patiently for her sake, and Mrs. Rushmere rightly conjectured that the time of her emancipation was not far distant.

"Well, my poor son, I will speak to your father about this sad business. You must not be impatient, if he feels angry and resentful. I know how he rejoiced in the idea of your being a rich man. This will be a cruel disappointment to him."

"Oh, mother dear, it was his fault. Had he been only a little less avaricious, I might at this moment have been a happy man." He laid his head beside her on the pillow, and wept like a child.

That night, Mr. Rushmere was duly informed of the communication Gilbert had made to his mother. He had, however, carefully concealed the duplicity of his wife, with regard to the fortune, by saying that she had fully believed that she was to be heir to her uncle's property, and was as much disappointed as himself. Old Rushmere sat for some time beside his wife's bed astonished and almost stupefied.

"Oh, dang it, wife," he broke out at last, "this is a confounded bad business, and ruination to us all. To think that the boy should be sich a simple fool, to go an' marry a woman older nor himself without being sure o' the money. Sold his commission too, and to pay her debts—worse and worse—an' nothing but the pension for his wound to depend on to keep his wife an' mother from starving. Well, well, that ever Lawrence Rushmere should be father to such a simpleton."

"Lawrence," and Mrs. Rushmere took the large brown hand of her husband between her thin pale hands, "you must forgive him for my sake."

"Dang it, wife. How am I going to keep all this posse o' people. It's unreasonable, that it be; a' won't do it."

"He be your only son, Lawrence, all that will soon be left to you o' me."

"Oh, Mary, you are not going to leave me, not yet, not yet. A few more years and then we must both go. But oh, not yet, not yet, my dear, good wife. Get hearty and well, and old Larry will do all you require o' him." The stout old yeoman bent over the pillow, and kissed the pale meek face of his wife, and the tears from her gentle blue eyes.

"Well, Larry, dear, you must do this for me whiles I be living. Give your son an' his family a home, until such time as poor Gilly's arm's healed, an' he be able to help himself. You are not a poor man, husband, an' can spare this much for an only son. An' remember he might have done better if ye would only ha' let him."

"Aye, I'm sorry for that now. Doll would have made him a better wife than his butterfly o' a woman. If so be, I have to keep her, Gilly must set her to work, an' the old mother likewise. I'm not going to keep a house full o' sarvants to wait upon them."

"Neighbour Sly wants a girl, an' will take Polly off your hands, Lawrence, an' this Martha Wood can fill her place. But leave me Dorothy, my darling Dorothy, till I be gone. It won't be long."

On the whole, Rushmere behaved better than could be expected. At dinner, he told Gilbert that his mother had informed him of his troubles, and he was willing to take him as partner in the farm; he was to manage the concern and dispose of all the produce, sharing the returns equally with him.

Dorothy looked earnestly at the old man, when he made this proposal. She knew enough of human nature to feel convinced that it would never work well. That old Rushmere would never consent to act under the direction of his son, and that his labourers, who were very fond of him, would never serve two masters. But her influence for good in that house was over. Advice or remonstrance with a man of Rushmere's obstinate character was alike vain.

Gilbert was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, which were echoed by the ladies.

"And now, my dear," said the old man, turning to Mrs. Gilbert, "I can't afford to keep idle folk. What can you do for a living; can you cook?"

"I never was brought up to kitchen work, father," returned Mrs. Gilbert, in a very bland voice, "but I can try."

"Dolly can teach you."

"I shan't trouble her," muttered the newly installed mistress of the house. "A woman of sense surely may acquire a knowledge of such trifling matters without any particular instructions."

"Ah, my dear, but it requires