“Come along, Mynton; Hunt, now mind you try and lame that big beast of a raw-boned charger among these gutters, will you?  I’m off, Jennings; meet me, do you hear, at the Croft to-mor—­”

So the three friends galloped away; and John Vincent really felt more light-hearted and happy than at any time the week past, for having so properly got rid of a welcome bit of gold.

“Roger Acton! come up here, sir, out of that ditch:  his honour has been liberal enough to give you a shilling to drink his health with.”

“A shilling, Muster Jennings?” said the poor astonished man; “why I’ll make oath it was a pound; I saw it myself.  Come, Muster Jennings, don’t break jokes upon a poor man’s back.”

“Jokes, Acton? sticks, sir, if you say another word:  take John Vincent’s shilling.”

“Oh, sir!” cried Roger, quite unmanned at this most cruel disappointment; “be merciful—­be generous—­give me my gold, my own bit of gold!  I’ll swear his honour gave it for me:  blessings on his head!  You know he did, Mr. Simon; don’t play upon me!”

“Play upon you?—­generous—­your gold—­what is it you mean, man?  We’ll have no madmen about us, I can tell you; take the shilling, or else—­”

“’Rob not the poor, because he is poor, for the Lord shall plead his cause,’” was the solemn answer.

“Roger Acton!”—­the bailiff gave a scared start, as usual, and, recovering himself, looked both white and stern:  “you have dared to quote the Bible against me:  deeply shall you rue it.  Begone, man! your work on this estate is at an end.”

CHAPTER VII.

Wrongs and ruin.

A very miserable man was Roger Acton now, for this last trial was the worst of all.  The vapours of his discontent had almost passed away—­that bright pernicious dream was being rapidly forgotten—­the morning’s ill-got coin, “thank the Lord, it was lost as soon as found,” and penitence had washed away that blot upon his soul; but here, an honest pound, liberally bestowed by his hereditary landlord—­his own bright bit of gold—­the only bit but one he ever had (and how different in innocence from that one!)—­a seeming sugar-drop of kindness, shed by the rich heavens on his cup of poverty—­to have this meanly filched away by a grasping, grinding task-master—­oh, was it not a bitter trial?  What affliction as to this world’s wealth can a man meet worse than this?

Acton’s first impulse was to run to the Hall, and ask to see Sir John:—­“Out; won’t be back till seven, and then can see nobody; the baronet will be dressing for dinner, and musn’t be disturbed.”  Then he made a vain effort to speak with Mr. Jennings, and plead with him:  yes, even on his knees, if must be.  Mr. Simon could not be so bad; perhaps it was a long joke after all—­the bailiff always had a queer way with him.  Or, if indeed the man meant robbery, loudly to threaten him, that