r at Belton, and the sweet scent of the new hay
filled the porch of the old house with fragrance, as Clara sat there
alone with her work. Immediately before the house door, between that
and the old tower, there stood one of Farmer Stovey's hay-carts, now
empty, with an old horse between the shafts looking as though he were
asleep in the sun. Immediately beyond the tower the men were loading
another cart, and the women and children were chattering as they
raked the scattered remnants up to the rows. Under the shadow of the
old tower, but in sight of Clara as she sat in the porch, there lay
the small beer-barrels of the hay-makers, and three or four rakes
were standing erect against the old grey wall. It was now eleven
o'clock, and Clara was waiting for her father, who was not yet out
of his room. She had taken his breakfast to him in bed, as was her
custom; for he had fallen into idle ways, and the luxury of his bed
was, of all his remaining luxuries, the one that he liked the best.
After a while he came down to her, having an open letter in his hand.
Clara saw that he intended either to show it to her or to speak of
it, and asked him therefore, with some tone of interest in her voice,
from whom it had come. But Mr. Amedroz was fretful at the moment, and
instead of answering her began to complain of his tenant's ill-usage
of him.

"What has he got his cart there for? I haven't let him the road up to
the hall door. I suppose he will bring his things into the parlour
next."

"I rather like it, papa."

"Do you? I can only say that you're lucky in your tastes. I don't
like it, I can tell you."

"Mr. Stovey is out there. Shall I ask him to have the things moved
further off?"

"No, my dear,--no. I must bear it, as I do all the rest of it. What
does it matter? There'll be an end of it soon. He pays his rent, and
I suppose he is right to do as he pleases. But I can't say that I
like it."

"Am I to see the letter, papa?" she asked, wishing to turn his mind
from the subject of the hay-cart.

"Well, yes. I brought it for you to see; though perhaps I should be
doing better if I burned it, and said nothing more about it. It is a
most impudent production; and heartless,--very heartless."

Clara was accustomed to such complaints as these from her father.
Everything that everybody did around him he would call heartless.
The man pitied himself so much in his own misery, that he expected
to live in an atmosphere of pity from o