a generous supper fit for a “Harvest Home”—­yet it was only Farmer Jocelyn’s ordinary way of celebrating the end of the haymaking,—­ the real harvest home was another and bigger festival yet to come.  Robin Clifford began to carve a sirloin of beef,—­Ned Landon, who was nearly opposite him, actively apportioned slices of roast pork, the delicacy most favoured by the majority, and when all the knives and forks were going and voices began to be loud and tongues discursive, Innocent slipped into a chair by Farmer Jocelyn and sat between him and Priscilla.  For not only the farm hands but all the servants on the place were at table, this haymaking supper being the annual order of the household.  The girl’s small delicate head, with its coronal of wild roses, looked strange and incongruous among the rough specimens of manhood about her, and sometimes as the laughter became boisterous, or some bucolic witticism caught her ear, a faint flush coloured the paleness of her cheeks and a little nervous tremor ran through her frame.  She drew as closely as she could to the old farmer, who sat rigidly upright and quiet, eating nothing but a morsel of bread with a bowl of hot salted milk Priscilla had put before him.  Beer was served freely, and was passed from man to man in leather “blackjacks” such as were commonly used in olden times, but which are now considered mere curiosities.  They were, however, ordinary wear at Briar Farm, and had been so since very early days.  The Great Hall was lighted by tall windows reaching almost to the roof and traversed with shafts of solid stonework; the one immediately opposite Farmer Jocelyn’s chair showed the very last parting glow of the sunset like a dull red gleam on a dark sea.  For the rest, thick home-made candles of a torch shape fixed into iron sconces round the walls illumined the room, and burned with unsteady flare, giving rise to curious lights and shadows as though ghostly figures were passing to and fro, ruffling the air with their unseen presences.  Priscilla Priday, her wizened yellow face just now reddened to the tint of a winter apple by her recent exertions in the kitchen, was not so much engaged in eating her supper as in watching her master.  Her beady brown eyes roved from him to the slight delicate girl beside him with inquisitive alertness.  She felt and saw that the old man’s thoughts were far away, and that something of an unusual nature was troubling his mind.  Priscilla was an odd-looking creature but faithful;—­her attachments were strong, and her dislikes only a shade more violent,—­and just now she entertained very uncomplimentary sentiments towards “them doctors” who had, as she surmised, put her master out of sorts with himself, and caused anxiety to the “darling child,” as she invariably called Innocent when recommending her to the guidance of the Almighty in her daily and nightly prayers.  Meanwhile the noise at the supper table grew louder and more incessant, and sundry deep potations of home-brewed ale began to do their work.  One man, seated near Ned Landon, was holding forth in very slow thick accents on the subject of education: