The farmer, while his mind still hung about thousands of pounds and a certain incomprehensible division of them to produce a distinct intelligible total, and set before him the sum of Anthony’s riches, could see that his elder daughter was behaving flightily and neglecting the true interests of the family, and he was chagrined.  But Anthony, before he entered the house, had assured him that Dahlia was well, and that nothing was wrong with her.  So he looked at Mrs. Sumfit, who now took upon herself to plead for Dahlia:  a young thing, and such a handsome creature! and we were all young some time or other; and would heaven have mercy on us, if we were hard upon the young, do you think?  The motto of a truly religious man said, try ’em again.  And, maybe, people had been a little hard upon Dahlia, and the girl was apt to take offence.  In conclusion, she appealed to Rhoda to speak up for her sister.  Rhoda sat in quiet reserve.

She was sure her sister must be justified in all she did but the picture of the old man coming from his work every night to take his tea quite alone made her sad.  She found herself unable to speak, and as she did not, Mrs. Sumfit had an acute twinge from her recently trodden foot, and called her some bitter names; which was not an unusual case, for the kind old woman could be querulous, and belonged to the list of those whose hearts are as scales, so that they love not one person devotedly without a corresponding spirit of opposition to another.  Rhoda merely smiled.

By-and-by, the women left the two men alone.

Anthony turned and struck the farmer’s knee.

“You’ve got a jewel in that gal, brother William John.”

“Eh! she’s a good enough lass.  Not much of a manager, brother Tony.  Too much of a thinker, I reckon.  She’s got a temper of her own too.  I’m a bit hurt, brother Tony, about that other girl.  She must leave London, if she don’t alter.  It’s flightiness; that’s all.  You mustn’t think ill of poor Dahly.  She was always the pretty one, and when they know it, they act up to it:  she was her mother’s favourite.”

“Ah! poor Susan! an upright woman before the Lord.”

“She was,” said the farmer, bowing his head.

“And a good wife,” Anthony interjected.

“None better—­never a better; and I wish she was living to look after her girls.”

“I came through the churchyard, hard by,” said Anthony; “and I read that writing on her tombstone.  It went like a choke in my throat.  The first person I saw next was her child, this young gal you call Rhoda; and, thinks I to myself, you might ask me, I’d do anything for ye—­that I could, of course.”

The farmer’s eye had lit up, but became overshadowed by the characteristic reservation.

“Nobody’d ask you to do more than you could,” he remarked, rather coldly.

“It’ll never be much,” sighed Anthony.

“Well, the world’s nothing, if you come to look at it close,” the farmer adopted a similar tone.