k
thing sitting there so sullen, and me in my misery; I'd give it to you
now for news of my darlin'. Yes, William; and my poor husband's cottage,
in Sussex--seventeen pound per annum. That, if you'll be goodness itself,
and let me hear a word."

"Take her upstairs," said the farmer to Rhoda, and Rhoda went by her and
took her hands, and by dint of pushing from behind and dragging in front,
Mrs. Sumfit, as near on a shriek as one so fat and sleek could be, was
ejected. The farmer and Robert heard her struggles and exclamations along
the passage, but her resistance subsided very suddenly.

"There's power in that girl," said the farmer, standing by the shut door.

Robert thought so, too. It affected his imagination, and his heart began
to beat sickeningly.

"Perhaps she promised to speak--what has happened, whatever that may be,"
he suggested.

"Not she; not she. She respects my wishes."

Robert did not ask what had happened.

Mr. Fleming remained by the door, and shut his mouth from a further word
till he heard Rhoda's returning footstep. He closed the door again behind
her, and went up to the square deal table, leaned his body forward on the
knuckles of his trembling fist, and said, "We're pretty well broken up,
as it is. I've lost my taste for life."

There he paused. Save by the shining of a wet forehead, his face betrayed
nothing of the anguish he suffered. He looked at neither of them, but
sent his gaze straight away under labouring brows to an arm of the
fireside chair, while his shoulders drooped on the wavering support of
his hard-shut hands. Rhoda's eyes, ox-like, as were her father's, smote
full upon Robert's, as in a pang of apprehension of what was about to be
uttered.

It was a quick blaze of light, wherein he saw that the girl's spirit was
not with him. He would have stopped the farmer at once, but he had not
the heart to do it, even had he felt in himself strength to attract an
intelligent response from that strange, grave, bovine fixity of look,
over which the human misery sat as a thing not yet taken into the dull
brain.

"My taste for life," the old man resumed, "that's gone. I didn't bargain
at set-out to go on fighting agen the world. It's too much for a man o'
my years. Here's the farm. Shall 't go to pieces?--I'm a farmer of thirty
year back--thirty year back, and more: I'm about no better'n a farm
labourer in our time, which is to-day. I don't cost much. I ask to be
fed, and to work for