“We shall hear to-morrow,” he observed in conclusion; which, as it caused a desire for the morrow to spring within his bosom, sent his eyes at Master Gammon, who was half an hour behind his time for bed, and had dropped asleep in his chair.  This unusual display of public somnolence on Master Gammon’s part, together with the veteran’s reputation for slowness, made the farmer fret at him as being in some way an obstruction to the lively progress of the hours.

“Hoy, Gammon!” he sang out, awakeningly to ordinary ears; but Master Gammon was not one who took the ordinary plunge into the gulf of sleep, and it was required to shake him and to bellow at him—­to administer at once earthquake and thunder—­before his lizard eyelids would lift over the great, old-world eyes; upon which, like a clayey monster refusing to be informed with heavenly fire, he rolled to the right of his chair and to the left, and pitched forward, and insisted upon being inanimate.  Brought at last to a condition of stale consciousness, he looked at his master long, and uttered surprisingly “Farmer, there’s queer things going on in this house,” and then relapsed to a combat with Mrs. Sumfit, regarding the candle; she saying that it was not to be entrusted to him, and he sullenly contending that it was.

“Here, we’ll all go to bed,” said the farmer.  “What with one person queer, and another person queer, I shall be in for a headache, if I take to thinking.  Gammon’s a man sees in ’s sleep what he misses awake.  Did you ever know,” he addressed anybody, “such a thing as Tony Hackbut coming into a relation’s house, and sitting there, and not a word for any of us?  It’s, I call it, dumbfoundering.  And that’s me:  why didn’t I go up and shake his hand, you ask.  Well, why not?  If he don’t know he’s welcome, without ceremony, he’s no good.  Why, I’ve got matters t’ occupy my mind, too, haven’t I?  Every man has, and some more’n others, let alone crosses.  There’s something wrong with my brother-in-law, Tony, that’s settled.  Odd that we country people, who bide, and take the Lord’s gifts—­” The farmer did not follow out this reflection, but raising his arms, shepherd-wise, he puffed as if blowing the two women before him to their beds, and then gave a shy look at Robert, and nodded good-night to him.  Robert nodded in reply.  He knew the cause of the farmer’s uncommon blitheness.  Algernon Blancove, the young squire, had proposed for Rhoda’s hand.

CHAPTER XLIII

Anthony had robbed the Bank.  The young squire was aware of the fact, and had offered to interpose for him, and to make good the money to the Bank, upon one condition.  So much, Rhoda had gathered from her uncle’s babbling interjections throughout the day.  The farmer knew only of the young squire’s proposal, which had been made direct to him; and he had left it to Robert to state the case to Rhoda, and plead for himself.  She believed fully, when