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you due respect, but’s got a notion as how his way of thinking’s better ‘n his seniors. It’s the style now with all young folks. Makes a butt of old Mas’ Gammon; laughs at the old man. It ain’t respectful t’ age, I say. Gammon don’t understand nothing about new feeds for sheep, and dam nonsense about growing such things as melons, fiddle-faddle, for ‘em. Robert’s a beginner. What he knows, I taught the young fellow. Then, my question is, where’s his ideas come from, if they’re contrary to mine? If they’re contrary to mine, they’re contrary to my teaching. Well, then, what are they worth? He can’t see that. He’s a good one at work—I’ll say so much for him.”

      Old Anthony gave Rhoda a pat on the shoulder.

      CHAPTER III

      “Pipes in the middle of the day’s regular revelry,” ejaculated Anthony, whose way of holding the curved pipe-stem displayed a mind bent on reckless enjoyment, and said as much as a label issuing from his mouth, like a figure in a comic woodcut of the old style:—“that’s,” he pursued, “that’s if you haven’t got to look up at the clock every two minutes, as if the devil was after you. But, sitting here, you know, the afternoon’s a long evening; nobody’s your master. You can on wi’ your slippers, up wi’ your legs, talk, or go for’ard, counting, twicing, and three-timesing; by George! I should take to drinking beer if I had my afternoons to myself in the city, just for the sake of sitting and doing sums in a tap-room; if it’s a big tap-room, with pew sort o’ places, and dark red curtains, a fire, and a smell of sawdust; ale, and tobacco, and a boy going by outside whistling a tune of the day. Somebody comes in. ‘Ah, there’s an idle old chap,’ he says to himself, (meaning me), and where, I should like to ask him, ‘d his head be if he sat there dividing two hundred and fifty thousand by forty-five and a half!”

      The farmer nodded encouragingly. He thought it not improbable that a short operation with these numbers would give the sum in Anthony’s possession, the exact calculation of his secret hoard, and he set to work to stamp them on his brain, which rendered him absent in manner, while Mrs. Sumfit mixed liquor with hot water, and pushed at his knee, doubling in her enduring lips, and lengthening her eyes to aim a side-glance of reprehension at Anthony’s wandering loquacity.

      Rhoda could bear it no more.

      “Now let me hear of my sister, uncle,” she said.

      “I’ll tell you what,” Anthony responded, “she hasn’t got such a pretty sort of a sweet blackbirdy voice as you’ve got.”

      The girl blushed scarlet.

      “Oh, she can mount them colours, too,” said Anthony.

      His way of speaking of Dahlia indicated that he and she had enough of one another; but of the peculiar object of his extraordinary visit not even the farmer had received a hint. Mrs. Sumfit ventured to think aloud that his grog was not stiff enough, but he took a gulp under her eyes, and smacked his lips after it in a most convincing manner.

      “Ah! that stuff wouldn’t do for me in London, half-holiday or no half-holiday,” said Anthony.

      “Why not?” the farmer asked.

      “I should be speculating—deep—couldn’t hold myself in: Mexicans, Peroovians, Venzeshoolians, Spaniards, at ‘em I should go. I see bonds in all sorts of colours, Spaniards in black and white, Peruvians—orange, Mexicans—red as the British army. Well, it’s just my whim. If I like red, I go at red. I ain’t a bit of reason. What’s more, I never speculate.”

      “Why, that’s safest, brother Tony,” said the farmer.

      “And safe’s my game—always was, always will be! Do you think”—Anthony sucked his grog to the sugar-dregs, till the spoon settled on his nose—“do you think I should hold the position I do hold, be trusted as I am trusted? Ah! you don’t know much about that. Should I have money placed in my hands, do you think—and it’s thousands at a time, gold, and notes, and cheques—if I was a risky chap? I’m known to be thoroughly respectable. Five and forty years I’ve been in Boyne’s Bank, and thank ye, ma’am, grog don’t do no harm down here. And I will take another glass. ‘When the heart of a man!’—but I’m no singer.”

      Mrs. Sumfit simpered, “Hem; it’s the heart of a woman, too: and she have one, and it’s dying to hear of her darlin’ blessed in town, and of who cuts her hair, and where she gets her gownds, and whose pills—”

      The farmer interrupted her irritably.

      “Divide a couple o’ hundred thousand and more by forty-five and a half,” he said. “Do wait, mother; all in good time. Forty-five and a-half, brother Tony; that was your sum—ah!—you mentioned it some time back—half of what? Is that half a fraction, as they call it? I haven’t forgot fractions, and logareems, and practice, and so on to algebrae, where it always seems to me to blow hard, for, whizz goes my head in a jiffy, as soon as I’ve mounted the ladder to look into that country. How ‘bout that forty-five and a half, brother Tony, if you don’t mind condescending to explain?”

      “Forty-five and a half?” muttered Anthony, mystified.

      “Oh, never mind, you know, if you don’t like to say, brother Tony.” The farmer touched him up with his pipe-stem.

      “Five and a half,” Anthony speculated. “That’s a fraction you got hold of, brother William John,—I remember the parson calling out those names at your wedding: ‘I, William John, take thee, Susan;’ yes, that’s a fraction, but what’s the good of it?”

      “What I mean is, it ain’t forty-five and half of forty-five. Half of one, eh? That’s identical with a fraction. One—a stroke—and two under it.”

      “You’ve got it correct,” Anthony assented.

      “How many thousand divide it by?”

      “Divide what by, brother William John? I’m beat.”

      “Ah! out comes the keys: lockup everything; it’s time!” the farmer laughed, rather proud of his brother-in-law’s perfect wakefulness after two stiff tumblers. He saw that Anthony was determined with all due friendly feeling to let no one know the sum in his possession.

      “If it’s four o’clock, it is time to lock up,” said Anthony, “and bang to go the doors, and there’s the money for thieves to dream of—they can’t get a-nigh it, let them dream as they like. What’s the hour, ma’am?”

      “Not three, it ain’t,” returned Mrs. Sumfit; “and do be good creatures, and begin about my Dahly, and where she got that Bumptious gownd, and the bonnet with blue flowers lyin’ by on the table: now, do!”

      Rhoda coughed.

      “And she wears lavender gloves like a lady,” Mrs. Sumfit was continuing.

      Rhoda stamped on her foot.

      “Oh! cruel!” the comfortable old woman snapped in pain, as she applied her hand to the inconsolable fat foot, and nursed it. “What’s roused ye, you tiger girl? I shan’t be able to get about, I shan’t, and then who’s to cook for ye all? For you’re as ignorant as a raw kitchen wench, and knows nothing.”

      “Come, Dody, you’re careless,” the farmer spoke chidingly through Mrs. Sumfit’s lamentations.

      “She stops uncle Anthony when he’s just ready, father,” said Rhoda.

      “Do you want to know?” Anthony set his small eyes on her: “do you want to know, my dear?” He paused, fingering his glass, and went on: “I, Susan, take thee, William John, and you’ve come of it. Says I to myself, when I hung sheepish by your mother and by your father, my dear, says I to myself, I ain’t a marrying man: and if these two, says I, if any progeny comes to ‘em—to bless them, some people’d say, but I know what life is, and what young ones are—if—where was I? Liquor makes you talk, brother William John, but where’s your ideas? Gone, like hard cash! What I meant was, I felt I might some day come for’ard and help the issue of your wife’s weddin’, and wasn’t such a shady object among you, after all. My pipe’s out.”

      Rhoda stood up, and filled

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