Mr. Quince mastered his wrath by an effort, and with no sign of discomposure moved away without making any reference to the identity of the unfortunate in the stable.”

“Good-night,” said the farmer, “and thank you for coming and giving me the fresh advice.  It ain’t everybody that ‘ud ha’ taken the trouble.  If I hadn’t lost that key——­”

The shoemaker scowled, and with the two fat books under his arm passed the listening neighbours with the air of a thoughtful man out for an evening stroll.  Once inside his house, however, his manner changed, the attitude of Mrs. Quince demanding, at any rate, a show of concern.

“It’s no good talking,” he said at last.  “Ned shouldn’t have gone there, and as for going to law about it, I sha’n’t do any such thing; I should never hear the end of it.  I shall just go on as usual, as if nothing had happened, and when Rose is tired of keeping him there he must let him out.  I’ll bide my time.”

Mrs. Quince subsided into vague mutterings as to what she would do if she were a man, coupled with sundry aspersions upon the character, looks, and family connections of Farmer Rose, which somewhat consoled her for being what she was.

“He has always made jokes about your advice,” she said at length, “and now everybody’ll think he’s right.  I sha’n’t be able to look anybody in the face.  I should have seen through it at once if it had been me.  I’m going down to give him a bit o’ my mind.”

“You stay where you are,” said Mr. Quince, sharply, “and, mind, you are not to talk about it to anybody.  Farmer Rose ’ud like nothing better than to see us upset about it.  I ain’t done with him yet.  You wait.”

Mrs. Quince, having no option, waited, but nothing happened.  The following day found Ned Quince still a prisoner, and, considering the circumstances, remarkably cheerful.  He declined point-blank to renounce his preposterous attentions, and said that, living on the premises, he felt half like a son-in-law already.  He also complimented the farmer upon the quality of his bread.

The next morning found him still unsubdued, and, under interrogation from the farmer, he admitted that he liked it, and said that the feeling of being at home was growing upon him.

“If you’re satisfied, I am,” said Mr. Rose, grimly.  “I’ll keep you here till you promise; mind that.”

“It’s a nobleman’s life,” said Ned, peeping through the window, “and I’m beginning to like you as much as my real father.”

“I don’t want none o’ yer impudence,” said the farmer, reddening.

[Illustration:  “‘None o’ yer impudence,’ said the farmer.”]

“You’ll like me better when you’ve had me here a little longer,” said Ned; “I shall grow on you.  Why not be reasonable and make up your mind to it?  Celia and I have.”

“I’m going to send Celia away on Saturday,” said Mr. Rose; “make yourself happy and comfortable in here till then.  If you’d like another crust o’ bread or an extra half pint o’ water you’ve only got to mention it.  When she’s gone I’ll have a hunt for that key, so as you can go back to your father and help him to understand his law-books better.”