"My character," said Arkdale, while preparing the lather, "I think I may flatter myself, stands as high as most men's for honesty, industry, and perseverance. Allow me!"

And the poor old farmer was seized by the nose, and gagged by a dab of lather, before he could speak or move to help himself.

The two sons stood with mouths agape, staring from one to the other.

Arkdale lathered away coolly, and went on recommending himself to Joan's guardian.

"I never," said he, "allow a good chance to slip through my fingers for want of a little enterprise. I have some valuable trade secrets. I hope one day to be a rich man. At all events, Joan shall not want. She, too, is industrious. I think we are admirably suited to each other."

The farmer, unable to move a hair's breadth for fear of the razor, fixed his round eyes on him with a look of stolid wonder and wrath.

No shaving brushes were used in those days, and it was a custom of the barbers to vie with each other in the

dexterity with which they flung the lather from their fingers to a distance. Arkdale performed this feat with remarkable grace.

A look of admiration began to blend itself with the blank amazement in the eyes of the spectators.

The face shaved, and the farmer's rough locks reduced to order by Arkdale's ready comb, and sprinkled with sweet water, Arkdale took up the farmer's old hat, and, according to the rules of his trade, presented it to him with a deep bow and the words—

"Your humble servant, sir!"

The interest of the bystanders was now centred in the farmer himself.

John and Luke Bristow were, especially curious to see how their father would reply to the strange attack that had been made upon him.

Left to himself the farmer looked not unlike an old crow who had been caught in a child's trap and set free again, and who begins to perceive its freedom by slow degrees, and to lift its crushed feathers. He moved first one shoulder, then the other, then swelled, grunted, fixed his

D

eyes vindictively on Arkdale, rose, drew his hand across his smooth chin, and paused.

Arkdale had taken his hat, and, modestly turning his back on the supper table, had seated himself on a sack of oats close to the open door.

"By the mass, farmer!" cried he, as the farmer stood glowering at him, "'tis well worth a journey from the north to see such land as this. That's something like wheat yonder, that is; and a turnip-field here is a turnipfield. Now, that one running up from the water's edge to this lane is a sight for sore eyes. Belongs to a neighbour of yours, they tell me."

"Then they toll 'ee a dormed lie, moy foyne younker," growled the farmer. ""Tis no mon's aloyve but moyne."

66 Sure, now," said Arkdale.

"Well, 'tis a pretty field.

And those are rare fine grunters yonder. You Cambridgeshire farmers ought to come and give us northerners a lesson or two. Joan, lass, bear in mind I am intruding. As soon as thou'rt at liberty I'll wish thee goodbye."

At this appeal the farmer turned his eyes slowly from

Arkdale to Joan, who was dishing up the hissing bacon and eggs. After looking at her flushed face for some time, he went to his chair at the table, again stroked his chin, and said to Arkdale gruffly

"Woll, younker, if 'ee thinks so woll o' the bacon 'ee'ds better stay and taste un."

"Nay, farmer!" answered he, "I never intended to intrude. 'Twas but to see you about Joan. I'll wish you a good evening."

66

The farmer broke out with a hoarse laugh.

Why, dorm me, lad," cried he, thumping the table,

can 'ee arst for a sweetheart and pull a mon by the noyse as soon as look at un, and woll 'ee turn shame-faced o'er a bit ò' vittles? Clap thee down; there's no great harm i' thee; thee knows a good turnip-field when thee sees un. Come, clap thee down. I arst thy pardon for callin' thee a 'varsity chap, if 'tis that sticks i' thy gizzard."

Arkdale smiled and approached the table, glancing rather anxiously at Joan as he did so.

He could plainly see she was not too well pleased at her consent having been thus boldly taken for granted, and

began to fear he had shaved the farmer gratis in more

respects than one.

The two young men hung up their pitchforks, seated themselves on a bench at the table, and grinned at one another till the farmer filled their plates.'

Joan waited on them in sullen silence, then retired to her own cold supper in the corner. The farmer, however, called her back, made her sit on the same bench with Arkdale, and piled up her plate with a lavish hand.

Arkdale made many attempts to get up a conversation. He chatted about the fair and the harvest, but was soon compelled to hold his tongue, for neither Farmer Bristow nor his sons had any idea of eating and talking at the same time.

If he ventured a remark to one of the sons, the youth addressed would stand his knife and fork on end, stare at him for some seconds, and bawl out-"Eh?" And when Arkdale had repeated his observation, the young man would gaze on him, as if wondering what on earth there was in such a remark important enough to warrant a sus