our own thumb; what do you say to
that?"

"Only the same that I have always said, father. Nothing would ever
persuade me to marry Stephen Whitelaw. I'd rather starve."

"And you shall starve, if you stick to that," roared William Carley with
a blasphemous oath. "But you won't be such a fool, Nell. You'll hear
reason; you won't stand out against your poor old father and against your
own interests. The long and the short of it is, I've given Whitelaw my
promise that you shall be his wife between this and Easter."

"What!" exclaimed Ellen, with a faint cry of horror; "you don't mean that
you've promised that, father! You can't mean it!"

"I can and do mean it, lass."

"Then you've made a promise that will never be kept. You might have known
as much when you made it. I'm sure I've been plain-spoken enough about
Stephen Whitelaw."

"That was a girl's silly talk. I didn't think to find you a fool when I
came to the point. I let you have your say, and looked to time to bring
you to reason. Come, Nell, you're not going against your father, are
you?"

"I must, father, in this. I'd rather die twenty deaths than marry that
man. There's nothing I wouldn't rather do."

"Isn't there? You'd rather see your father in gaol, I suppose, if it came
to that?"

"See you in gaol!" cried the girl aghast. "For heaven's sake, what do you
mean, father? What fear is there of your being sent to prison, because I
won't marry Stephen Whitelaw? I'm not a baby," she added, with a
hysterical laugh; "you can't frighten me like that."

"No; you're a very wise young woman, I daresay; but you don't know
everything. You've seen me downhearted and out of sorts for this last
half-year; but I don't suppose you've troubled yourself much about it,
except to worry me with silly questions sometimes, when I've not been in
the humour to be talked to. Things have been going wrong with me ever
since hay-harvest, and I haven't sent Sir David sixpence yet for last
year's crops. I've put him off with one excuse after another from month
to month. He's a careless master enough at most times, and never
over-sharp with my accounts. But the time has come when I can't put him
off any longer. He wants money badly, he says; and I'm afraid he begins
to suspect something. Any way, he talks of coming here in a week or so to
look into things for himself. If he does that, I'm ruined."

"But the money, father--the money for the crops--how has it gone? You had
it, haven't