A stout servant-girl answered the summons.

“Take the old man in, and give him whatever is going, and his mug and pipe,” then he whispered her, “and don’t go lumping the chine down under his nose now.”

“I thank you, young man,” faltered Isaac, “I must not eat with you, but I will go in and rest my limbs which fail me, and compose myself; for passion is unseemly at my years.”

Arrived at the door, he suddenly paused, and looking upward, said: 

“Peace be under this roof, and comfort and love follow me into this dwelling.”

“Thank ye kindly,” said young Fielding, a little surprised and touched by this.  “How old are you, daddy, if you please?” added he respectfully.

“My son, I am threescore years and ten—­a man of years and grief—­grief for myself, grief still more for my nation and city.  Men that are men pity us; men that are dogs have insulted us in all ages.”

“Well,” said the good-natured young man soothingly—­“don’t you vex yourself any more about it.  Now you go in, and forget all your trouble awhile, please God, by my fireside, my poor old man.”

Isaac turned, the water came to his eyes at this after being insulted so; a little struggle took place in him, but nature conquered prejudice and certain rubbish he called religion.  He held out his hand like the king of all Asia; George grasped it like an Englishman.

“Isaac Levi is your friend,” and the expression of the man’s whole face and body showed these words carried with them a meaning unknown in good society.

He entered the house, and young Fielding stood watching him with a natural curiosity.

Now Isaac Levi knew nothing about the corn-factor’s plans.  When at one and the same moment he grasped George’s hand, and darted a long, lingering glance of demoniacal hatred on Meadows, he coupled two sentiments by pure chance.  And Meadows knew this; but still it struck Meadows as singular and ominous.

When, with the best of motives, one is on a wolf’s errand, it is not nice to hear a hyena say to the shepherd’s dog, “I am your friend,” and see him contemptuously shoot the eye of a rattlesnake at one’s self.

The misgiving, however, was but momentary; Meadows respected his own motives and felt his own power; an old Jew’s wild fury could not shake his confidence.

He muttered, “One more down to your account, George Fielding,” and left the young man watching Isaac’s retreating form.

George, who didn’t know he was gone, said: 

“Old man’s words seem to knock against my bosom, Mr. Meadows—­Gone, eh?—­that man,” thought George Fielding, “has everybody’s good word, parson’s and all—­who’d think he’d lift his hand, leastways his stick it was and that’s worse, against a man of three score and upward—­Ugh!” thought George Fielding, yeoman of the midland counties—­and unaffected wonder mingled with his disgust.

His reverie was broken by William Fielding just ridden in from Farnborough.