breaking; wade about in the foul mire, never a dry stitch; empty belly, sore hands, hat off to my Lord Redface; kicks and ha’pence; and now, here, at the hind end, when I’m worn to my poor bones, a kick and done with it.’  He walked a little while in silence, and then, extending his hand, ‘Now you, Nance Holdaway,’ says he, ’you come of my blood, and you’re a good girl.  When that man was a boy, I used to carry his gun for him.  I carried the gun all day on my two feet, and many a stitch I had, and chewed a bullet for.  He rode upon a horse, with feathers in his hat; but it was him that had the shots and took the game home.  Did I complain?  Not I. I knew my station.  What did I ask, but just the chance to live and die honest?  Nance Holdaway, don’t let them deny it to me--don’t let them do it.  I’ve been as poor as Job, and as honest as the day, but now, my girl, you mark these words of mine, I’m getting tired of it.’

‘I wouldn’t say such words, at least,’ said Nance.

‘You wouldn’t?’ said the old man grimly.  ’Well, and did I when I was your age?  Wait till your back’s broke and your hands tremble, and your eyes fail, and you’re weary of the battle and ask no more but to lie down in your bed and give the ghost up like an honest man; and then let there up and come some insolent, ungodly fellow—­ ah! if I had him in these hands!  “Where’s my money that you gambled?” I should say.  “Where’s my money that you drank and diced?” “Thief!” is what I would say; “Thief!"’ he roared, ‘"Thief"’

‘Mr. Archer will hear you if you don’t take care,’ said Nance, ’and I would be ashamed, for one, that he should hear a brave, old, honest, hard-working man like Jonathan Holdaway talk nonsense like a boy.’

‘D’ ye think I mind for Mr. Archer?’ he cried shrilly, with a clack of laughter; and then he came close up to her, stooped down with his two palms upon his knees, and looked her in the eyes, with a strange hard expression, something like a smile.  ’Do I mind for God, my girl?’ he said; ’that’s what it’s come to be now, do I mind for God?’

‘Uncle Jonathan,’ she said, getting up and taking him by the arm; ’you sit down again, where you were sitting.  There, sit still; I’ll have no more of this; you’ll do yourself a mischief.  Come, take a drink of this good ale, and I’ll warm a tankard for you.  La, we’ll pull through, you’ll see.  I’m young, as you say, and it’s my turn to carry the bundle; and don’t you worry your bile, or we’ll have sickness, too, as well as sorrow.’

‘D’ ye think that I’d forgotten you?’ said Jonathan, with something like a groan; and thereupon his teeth clicked to, and he sat silent with the tankard in his hand and staring straight before him.