are you stampin' for?"

He was beating his foot on the flooring.

"I want Sally to come up. I thought you had something to say, and
it seems there is nuthin'."

"Nothing, Jonas? Do not go. Do not leave me thus. This is the first
time you have been here since this little herald of goodwill
appeared in my sky. Do not go! Come to me. Put your hand in mine,
say that all is love and peace between us, and there will be no
more mistrust and hard words. I will do my duty by you to the very
best of my power, but, oh, Jonas, this will be a light thing to
accomplish if there be love. Without--it will be heavy indeed."

He continued stamping. "Will Sally never come?"

"Jonas! there is one thing more I desired to say, What is the name
to be given to the little fellow? It is right you should give him
one."

"I!" exclaimed the Broom-Squire, making for the stairs. "I! Call
him any name you will, but not mine. Call him," he turned his mean
face round, full of rancor, and with his lip drawn up on one side,
"as you like--call him, if it please you--Iver."

He went down the stairs muttering. What words more he said were
lost in the noise of his feet.

"Oh, my babe! my babe!" sobbed Mehetabel; "a herald not of goodwill
but of wicked strife!"

CHAPTER XXX.

A BEQUEST.

As Mehetabel became strong, the better feeling towards her in the
heart of Sally Rocliffe sank out of sight, and the old ill-humor
and jealousy took the upper hand once more. It was but too obvious
to the young mother that the woman would have been well content
had the feeble flame of life in the child been extinguished. This
little life stood between her son Samuel and the inheritance of the
Kink's farm.

Whatever was necessary for the child was done, but done grudgingly,
and Mehetabel soon learned that the little being that clung to
her, and drew the milk of life from her bosom, was without a
friend except herself, in the Punch-Bowl. Jonas maintained a cold
estrangement from both her and the babe, its aunt would have
welcomed its death.

The knowledge of this rendered her infant only more dear to
Mehetabel. Hers was a loving nature, one that hungered and panted
for love. She had clung as much as was allowed to the hostess at
the inn. She had been prepared with all her heart to love the man
to whom she had promised love. But this had been rendered difficult,
if not impossible, by his conduct. She would have forgiven whatever
wrong he had done her,