you don't want the child, let
me have her. To us she is welcome as the flowers in May."

"If Mary wishes it, she can go with you," the farmer answered, sternly;
and hating many words, he betook himself to work, resolving to keep at
it until the tanner should be gone. But when he came home after dusk,
his steadfast heart was beating faster than his stubborn mind approved.
Mary might have taken him at his word, and flown for refuge from
displeasure, cold voice, and dull comfort, to the warmth, and hearty
cheer, and love of the folk who only cared to please her, spoil her,
and utterly ruin her. Folk who had no sense of fatherly duty, or right
conscience; but, having piled up dirty money, thought that it covered
everything: such people might think it fair to come between a father
and his child, and truckle to her, by backing her up in whims that were
against her good, and making light of right and wrong, as if they turned
on money; but Mary (such a prudent lass, although she was a fool just
now) must see through all such shallow tricks, such rigmarole about
Parson Beloe, who must be an idiot himself to think so much of Simon
Popplewell--for Easter offerings, no doubt--but there, if Mary had the
heart to go away, what use to stand maundering about it? Stephen Anerley
would be dashed if he cared which way it was.

Meaning all this, Stephen Anerley, however, carried it out in a style at
variance with such reckless vigor. Instead of marching boldly in at his
own door, and throwing himself upon a bench, and waiting to be waited
upon, he left the narrow gravel-walk (which led from the horse gate to
the front door) and craftily fetched a compass through the pleasure beds
and little shrubs, upon the sward, and in the dusk, so that none might
see or hear him. Then, priding himself upon his stealth, as a man with
whom it is rare may do, yet knowing all the time that he was more than
half ashamed of it, he began to peep in at his own windows, as if he
were planning how to rob his own house. This thought struck him, but
instead of smiling, he sighed very sadly; for his object was to learn
whether house and home had been robbed of that which he loved so fondly.
There was no Mary in the kitchen, seeing to his supper; the fire was
bright, and the pot was there, but only shadows round it. No Mary in the
little parlor; only Willie half asleep, with a stupid book upon his lap,
and a wretched candle guttering. Then, as a last hope, he peered