“It’s late,” she said, rising.

“But you’re empty, my dear.  And to think o’ going to bed without a dinner, or your tea, and no supper!  You’ll never say prayers, if you do,” said Mrs. Sumfit.

The remark engendered a notion in the farmer’s head, that Anthony promised to be particularly prayerless.

“You’ve been and spent a night at the young squire’s, I hear, brother Tony.  All right and well.  No complaints on my part, I do assure ye.  If you’re mixed up with that family, I won’t bring it in you’re anyways mixed up with this family; not so as to clash, do you see.  Only, man, now you are here, a word’d be civil, if you don’t want a doctor.”

“I was right,” murmured Mrs. Sumfit.  “At the funeral, he was; and Lord be thanked!  I thought my eyes was failin’.  Mas’ Gammon, you’d ha’ lost no character by sidin’ wi’ me.”

“Here’s Dahlia, too,” said the farmer.  “Brother Tony, don’t you see her?  She’s beginning to be recognizable, if her hair’d grow a bit faster.  She’s...well, there she is.”

A quavering, tiny voice, that came from Anthony, said:  “How d’ ye do—­how d’ ye do;” sounding like the first effort of a fife.  But Anthony did not cast eye on Dahlia.

“Will you eat, man?—­will you smoke a pipe?—­won’t you talk a word?—­will you go to bed?”

These several questions, coming between pauses, elicited nothing from the staring oldman.

“Is there a matter wrong at the Bank?” the farmer called out, and Anthony jumped in a heap.

“Eh?” persisted the farmer.

Rhoda interposed:  “Uncle is tired; he is unwell.  Tomorrow he will talk to you.”

“No, but is there anything wrong up there, though?” the farmer asked with eager curiosity, and a fresh smile at the thought that those Banks and city folk were mortal, and could upset, notwithstanding their crashing wheels.  “Brother Tony, you speak out; has anybody been and broke?  Never mind a blow, so long, o’ course, as they haven’t swallowed your money.  How is it?  Why, I never saw such a sight as you.  You come down from London; you play hide and seek about your relation’s house; and here, when you do condescend to step in—­eh? how is it?  You ain’t, I hope, ruined, Tony, are ye?”

Rhoda stood over her uncle to conceal him.

“He shall not speak till he has had some rest.  And yes, mother, he shall have some warm tea upstairs in bed.  Boil some water.  Now, uncle, come with me.”

“Anybody broke?” Anthony rolled the words over, as Rhoda raised his arm.  “I’m asked such a lot, my dear, I ain’t equal to it.  You said here ’d be a quiet place.  I don’t know about money.  Try my pockets.  Yes, mum, if you was forty policemen, I’m empty; you’d find it.  And no objection to nod to prayers; but never was taught one of my own.  Where am I going, my dear?”

“Upstairs with me, uncle.”

Rhoda had succeeded in getting him on his feet.