ing all discipline in this
pleasant surprise, "that's a good lad; why, where is it?"

"Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it first, looking
after the greenfinch, and she sat on th' nest."

"You didn't frighten her, I hope," said the mother, "else she'll forsake
it."

"No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly--didn't I,
Molly?"

"Well, well, now come on," said Mrs. Poyser, "and walk before Father and
Mother, and take your little sister by the hand. We must go straight on
now. Good boys don't look after the birds of a Sunday."

"But, Mother," said Marty, "you said you'd give half-a-crown to find
the speckled turkey's nest. Mayn't I have the half-crown put into my
money-box?"

"We'll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy."

The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement at
their eldest-born's acuteness; but on Tommy's round face there was a
cloud.

"Mother," he said, half-crying, "Marty's got ever so much more money in
his box nor I've got in mine."

"Munny, me want half-a-toun in my bots," said Totty.

"Hush, hush, hush," said Mrs. Poyser, "did ever anybody hear such
naughty children? Nobody shall ever see their money-boxes any more, if
they don't make haste and go on to church."

This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the two
remaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted on without any
serious interruption, notwithstanding a small pond full of tadpoles,
alias "bullheads," which the lads looked at wistfully.

The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh to-morrow was
not a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during hay and corn harvest had
often some mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest; but no
temptation would have induced him to carry on any field-work, however
early in the morning, on a Sunday; for had not Michael Holdsworth had a
pair of oxen "sweltered" while he was ploughing on Good Friday? That was
a demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked thing; and with
wickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite clear that he would have
nothing to do, since money got by such means would never prosper.

"It a'most makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the sun shines
so," he observed, as they passed through the "Big Meadow." "But it's
poor foolishness to think o' saving by going against your conscience.
There's that Jim Wakefield, as they used to call 'Gentleman Wakefield