be able to lengthen it.

Whilst her convalescence and Netta's needlework were thus progressing,
there was an arrival at the farm. One evening the family were assembled
in the large hall, their usual sitting-room. Mr Prothero was reading the
newspaper at a small round table, with an especial candle to himself.
His worthy wife was mending or making shirts. At another round table,
not very far off, Netta had some work in her hands, and one of Captain
Marryat's novels open before her.

'Why don't you do your work instead of reading those trashy stories,
Netta?' suddenly exclaimed Mr Prothero.

'I am working, father,' said Netta.

'Pretty working sure enough. What nonsense have you got reading now?'

'Peter Simple, father, oh it is so funny.'

'Ah! it was that stupid stuff, and 'The Pilot,' and 'The Spy,' and I
don't know what else, that sent Owen off to sea. I suppose it's there
you learn all your nonsense. I wish you would read the cookery book, and
help your mother to take care of the house and dairy, instead of doing
what's no good in the world.'

A loud knocking at the door interrupted a rather pert reply.

'Who on earth is that at this time of night?' exclaimed the farmer,
throwing down his paper.

'Shanno,' called Mrs Prothero into the passage, 'ask who it is before
you open the door.'

'It's no great things,' suggested Netta, 'for they're knocking with a
stick, and not with the knocker.'

'Name o' goodness, what's the row?' said the farmer.

'Who's there?' demanded Shanno, in the passage.

The answer did not reach the hall, but Shanno came rushing in, 'It's
them Irishers again, master, upon my deet, they do be here for ever.'

'Give me my stick!' exclaimed Mr Prothero, 'if I don't give them a
lesson my name isn't David.'

He seized a stick and went into the passage, followed by his wife,
murmuring, 'Oh, David, bach,' and by Netta as far as the door, from
which she peeped down the passage.

'Who's there?' roared the farmer in a voice of thunder.

'May it please yer honour, I'm cowld and hungry. Long life to yer honour
and her leddyship, if yell only give the loan o' yer barn, or maybe yer
loft, or--'

'I'll show you the way to my barn, you idle, good-for-nothing scamp,'
cried Mr Prothero, opening the door, and levelling a blow with his stick
into the moonlight, that must infallibly have knocked down any one less
agile than the man for whom it was intended. As it was, the unwelcome
visitor jumped