the loft, lest she should see anybody; for the
clergyman had been to tell her that her son
Harry had been shot as a deserter. She had
refused to believe it at first; but Mr. Finch
had explained to her that the soldiers in
Spain had suffered so cruelly from hunger,
and want of shoes and of every comfort, that
hundreds of them had gone into the towns to
avoid starvation; and then, when the towns
were taken by the allies, such British soldiers
as were found, and were declared to have no
business there, were treated as deserters, for
an example. It was some comfort that Mr.
Finch did not think that Harry had done
any thing very wicked; but Mrs. Slaney
could not meet any one, nor bear the flaring
light on her ceiling; so she went up to the
loft again, and cried all night in the dark.
Farmer Neale was the wonder of the place
this evening. He was more gracious than
anybody, though there was nobody who was
not, at all times, afraid of him. When he was
seen striding down the steep narrow street, the
little boys hid themselves. They had not
been able to resist altogether the temptation
of dry thorns in his fences, and of the chips
which had still lain about where his winter
felling had been done, and they concluded he
was come now to give them a rough handling:
but they found themselves mistaken. He
was in high good-humour, sending such boys
as he could catch with orders upon his people
at home for a tar-barrel and a whole load of
faggots.

"'Tis hardly natural, though, is it? " said
Mrs. Billiter to Ann Warrender. "It does
not seem natural for any father to rejoice in
a victory when his own son has lost his best
leg there."

"Has Jack Neale lost his leg? O! what a
thing! " exclaimed Ann Warrender. She was
going on, but she perceived that the farmer
had heard her.

"Yes," said he, without any sound of heartpain
in his voice. "Jack has lost his right
leg, Mr. Finch tells me. And I tell Mr.
Finch, it is almost a pity the other did not
go after it. He deserved no more good of
either of them when he had let them do such
a thing as carry him off from his home and
his duty."

"How can you, Mr. Neale? " burst out both
the women.

"How can I do what, my dears? One
thing I can do; and that is, see when an
undutiful son is properly punished. He must
live on his pension, however: he can be of no
use to me, now; and I can't be burdened with
a cripple at home."

"I don't think he will ask you," Mrs. Billiter
said. " He was none so happy there before as
to want to come again."

Ann Warrender told this speech to her
father afterwards as the severest she had ever
heard from Mrs. Billiter; and they agreed
that it was very bold, considering that
Billiter was one of Farmer Neale's labourers.                                                                           But they also agreed that it was enough to
stir up flesh and blood to see a man made
hearty and good-humoured by misfortune
having befallen a son who had offended him.
After all, poor Jack Neale had run away only
because he could not bear his father's tyranny.
Two more of the Bleaburn recruits had suffered
—had been killed outright; one a widower,
who, in his first grief, had left his babes with
their grandmother, and gone to the wars;
and the other, an ignorant lout, who had
been entrapped because he was tall and
strong; had been fuddled with beer, flattered
with talk of finery, and carried off before he
could recover his slow wits. He was gone,
and would soon be forgotten.

"I say, Jem," said Farmer Neale, when he
met the village idiot, Jem Johnson, shuffling
along the street, staring at the lights: "you're
the wise man, after all: you're the best off,
my man."

Widow Johnson, who was just behind, put
her arm in poor Jem's, and tried to make
him move on. She was a stern woman; but
she was as much disgusted at Farmer Neale's
hardness as her tender-hearted daughter,
Mrs. Billiter, or anyone else.

"Good day, Mrs. Johnson," said Neale.
"You are better off for a son than I am,
after all. Yours is not such a fool as to go
and get his leg shot off, like my precious son."

Mrs. Johnson looked him hard in the face,
as she would a madman or a drunken man
whom she meant to intimidate; and                                                                             compelled her son to pass on. In truth, Farmer
Neale was drunk with evil passions  in such
high spirits, that, when he found that the
women—mothers of sons—would have nothing
to say to him to-day, he went to the public-
house, where he was pretty sure of being
humoured by the men who depended on his
employment for bread, and on his temper for
much of the peace of their lives.

On his way he met the clergyman, and                                                                                proposed to him to make a merry evening of it.
"If you will just step in at the Plough and
Harrow, Sir," said he, " and tell us all you
have heard about the victory, it will be the
finest thing -- just what the men want. And
we will drink your health, and the King's,
and Marshal Beresford's, who won the victory.
It is a fine occasion, Sir; an occasion to confirm                                                                     the loyalty of the people. You will come with me, Sir?"

"No," replied Mr. Finch, "I have to go
among another sort of people, Neale. If you
have spirits to make merry to-night, I own to
you I have not. Victories that cost so much,
do not make me very merry."

"Oh, fie, Mr. Finch! How are we to keep
up our character for loyalty, if you fail us—                                                                              if you put on a black face in the hour of
rejoicing?"

"Just come with me," said Mr. Finch, " and
I can show you cause enough for heaviness of
heart. In our small village, there is mourning
in many houses. Three of our late neighbours