“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in this pleasant surprise, “that’s a good lad; why, where is it?”

“Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge.  I saw it first, looking after the greenfinch, and she sat on th’ nest.”

“You didn’t frighten her, I hope,” said the mother, “else she’ll forsake it.”

“No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly—­didn’t I, Molly?”

“Well, well, now come on,” said Mrs. Poyser, “and walk before Father and Mother, and take your little sister by the hand.  We must go straight on now.  Good boys don’t look after the birds of a Sunday.”

“But, Mother,” said Marty, “you said you’d give half-a-crown to find the speckled turkey’s nest.  Mayn’t I have the half-crown put into my money-box?”

“We’ll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy.”

The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement at their eldest-born’s acuteness; but on Tommy’s round face there was a cloud.

“Mother,” he said, half-crying, “Marty’s got ever so much more money in his box nor I’ve got in mine.”

“Munny, me want half-a-toun in my bots,” said Totty.

“Hush, hush, hush,” said Mrs. Poyser, “did ever anybody hear such naughty children?  Nobody shall ever see their money-boxes any more, if they don’t make haste and go on to church.”

This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the two remaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted on without any serious interruption, notwithstanding a small pond full of tadpoles, alias “bullheads,” which the lads looked at wistfully.

The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh to-morrow was not a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during hay and corn harvest had often some mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest; but no temptation would have induced him to carry on any field-work, however early in the morning, on a Sunday; for had not Michael Holdsworth had a pair of oxen “sweltered” while he was ploughing on Good Friday?  That was a demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked thing; and with wickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite clear that he would have nothing to do, since money got by such means would never prosper.

“It a’most makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the sun shines so,” he observed, as they passed through the “Big Meadow.”  “But it’s poor foolishness to think o’ saving by going against your conscience.  There’s that Jim Wakefield, as they used to call ‘Gentleman Wakefield,’ used to do the same of a Sunday as o’ weekdays, and took no heed to right or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil.  An’ what’s he come to?  Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carrying a basket wi’ oranges in’t.”

“Ah, to be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, “you make but a poor trap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi’ wickedness.  The money as is got so’s like to burn holes i’ your pocket.  I’d niver wish us to leave our lads a sixpence but what was got i’ the rightful way.  And as for the weather, there’s One above makes it, and we must put up wi’t:  it’s nothing of a plague to what the wenches are.”