me."

So there, in the early morning light, while the birds began to sing, and
the sheep tried to find food on the dewy ground, George Dawe tied a
cloth tightly across my naked chest, and I could not help wincing at the
pain. Just as he was finishing, Jacob Buddle got slowly up from the
ground. He had been badly stunned, but no bones were broken.

"Look after your master," I said; then I saw the knife with which Nick
had stabbed me lying on the ground. "There," I said, "you know that
knife, I expect; your master used it while we wrestled."

But Buddle was dazed, and did not reply. So when I had put on my coat I
went to Nick Tresidder, who was very faint and unable to walk, so ill
had he become. Then my heart softened, and together we took him up to
Pennington, and Buddle, who was by this time better, said he could
manage him.

The next day I heard that Nick Tresidder had fallen from his horse and
broken his ribs, and Dr. Hawke, who had been called in, said that he
must remain in bed many days. But of this I am sure, although neither
George Dawe nor I said a word, Richard Tresidder knew the truth.

Now I have told this, not because I delight in such things, but because
I want it to be known how I was treated, and what I had to contend with,
for this was but a sample of the many ways in which the Tresidders had
tried to harm me. I have often wondered why they felt so evilly toward
me, seeing that they were rich at my cost, and I have come to the
conclusion that it is a law of human nature for a man to hate those whom
he has treated unjustly. But I am an unlearned man, and the heart of
man--and woman--is past finding out.

And now I must tell how, in spite of myself, I was drawn more and more
into contact with the Tresidders, with other matters which strangely
affected my life later on.

CHAPTER III

HOW I WAS ROBBED OF ELMWATER BARTON; HOW I FLOGGED THE TRESIDDERS, AND
WAS PILLORIED BECAUSE OF IT

A month after the event I have just related I was walking down toward
the sea, for my wound, which was but slight, had healed up, when,
passing by Betsey Fraddam's cottage, I saw the old woman sitting by the
door mending a garment.

"'Ere, Maaster Jasper, I want 'ee," said Betsey.

So I went toward her, not caring to offend her. Now I am not a
superstitious man, neither did I ever believe in some of the stories
told about Betsey. At the same time, I knew better than to offend her.
Even Parson Grigg was civ