enough for her to make this work of necessity
not disagreeable at the time he was performing
it. But he found it tiresome to remember her
little claims upon him when she was no longer
present. The letters he had promised her during
his weekly absences at Highminster, the trifling
commissions she had asked him to do for her, were
all considered in the light of troubles; and even
when he was with her he resented the inquiries
she made as to his mode of passing his time, or
what female acquaintances he had in Highminster.

When his apprenticeship was ended, nothing
would serve him but that he must go up to
London for a year or two. Poor Farmer Huntroyd
was beginning to repent of his ambition of
making his son Benjamin a gentleman. But it
was too late to repine now. Both father
and mother felt this, and, however sorrowful
they might be, they were silent, neither
demurring nor assenting to Benjamin's
proposition when first he made it. But Bessy,
through her tears, noticed that both her uncle
and aunt seemed unusually tired that night,
and sat hand-in-hand on the fireside settle,
idly gazing into the bright flames as if they
saw in it pictures of what they had once
hoped their lives would have been. Bessy
rattled about among the supper things as she
put them away after Benjamin's departure,
making more noise than usual—as if noise and
bustle was what she needed to keep her from
bursting out crying—and, having at one keen
glance taken in the position and looks of Nathan
and Hester, she avoided looking in that direction
again, for fear the sight of their wistful faces
should make her own tears overflow.

"Sit thee down lass—sit thee down. Bring
the creepie-stool to the fire side, and let's have
a bit of talk over the lad's plans," said Nathan
at last, rousing himself to speak. Bessy came
and sat down in front of the fire, and threw
her apron over her face, as she rested her head
on both hands. Nathan felt as if it was a
chance which of the two women burst out crying
first. So he thought he would speak, in
hopes of keeping off the infection of tears.

"Didst ever hear of this mad plan afore,
Bessy?"

"No, never!" Her voice came muffled, and
changed from under her apron. Hester felt as
if the tone, both of question and answer, implied
blame, and this she could not bear.

"We should ha' looked to it when we bound
him, for of necessity it would ha' come to this.
There's examins, and catechizes, and I dunno
what all for him to be put through in London.
It's not his fault."

"Which on us said it were?" asked Nathan,
rather put out. "Thof, for that matter, a few
weeks would carry him over the mire, and make
him as good a lawyer as any judge among 'em.
Oud Lawson the attorney told me that, in a
talk I had wi' him a bit sin. Na, na! it's the lad's
own hankering after London that makes him
want for to stay there for a year, let alone two."

Nathan shook his head.

"And if it be his own hankering," said Bessy,
putting down her apron, her face all aflame, and
her eyes swollen up, "I dunnot see harm in it.
Lads aren't like lasses, to be teed to their own
fireside like th' crook yonder. It's fitting for a
young man to go abroad, and see the world afore
he settles down."

Hester's hand sought Bessy's, and the two
women sat in sympathetic defiance of any blame
that should be thrown on the beloved absent.
Nathan only said:

"Nay, wench, dunna wax up so; whatten's
done, 's done; and worse, it's my doing. I mun
needs make my bairn a gentleman; and we mun
pay for it."

"Dear uncle! he wunna spend much, I'll
answer for it; and I'll scrimp and save i' th'
house to make it good."

"Wench!" said Nathan, solemnly, "it were
not paying in cash I were speaking on: it were
paying in heart's care, and heaviness of soul.
Lunnon is a place where the devil keeps court
as well as King George; and my poor chap has
more nor once welly fallen into his clutches
here. I dunno what he'll do when he gets close
within sniff of him."

"Don't let him go, father!" said Hester, for
the first time taking this view. Hitherto she had
only thought of her own grief at parting with
him. "Father, if you think so, keep him here,
safe under our own eye."

"Nay!" said Nathan, "he's past time o' life
for that. Why, there's not one on us knows where
he is at this present time, and he not gone out
of our sight an hour. He's too big to be put
back i' th' go-cart, mother, or kept within doors
with the chair turned bottom upwards."

"I wish he were a wee bairn lying in my arms
again. It were a sore day when I weaned him;
and I think life's been getten sorer and sorer at
every turn he's ta'en towards manhood."

"Coom, lass, that's noan the way to be talking.
Be thankful to Marcy that thou'st getten
a man for the son as stands five foot eleven
in's stockings, and ne'er a sick piece about him.
We wunnot grudge him his fling, will we, Bess,
my wench. He'll be coming back in a year, or
mebby a bit more; and be a' for settling in a
quiet town like, wi' a wife that's noan so fur
fra' me at this very minute. An' we oud folk,
as we get into years, must gi' up farm, and tak
a bit on a house near Lawyer Benjamin."

And so the good Nathan, his own heart heavy
enough, tried to soothe his womenkind. But, of
the three, his eyes were longest in closing; his
apprehensions the deepest founded.

"I misdoubt me I hanna done well by th' lad.
I misdoubt me sore," was the thought that kept
him awake till day began to dawn. "Summet's
wrong about him, or folk would na look at me
wi' such piteous-like een when they speak on
him. I can see th' meaning of it, thof I'm too
proud to let on. And Lawson, too, he holds
his tongue more nor he should do, when I ax
him how my lad's getting on, and whatten sort
of a lawyer he'll mak. God be marciful to
Hester an' me, if th' lad's gone away! God be
marciful! But mebby it's this lying waking a'