I had a perfect shoal of callers. Good night. "I hear you plotting with your wicked associates," cried Mrs. “I mean it. "What!" she exclaimed, almost choked with passion,—"I advised you to burthen yourself with that idle and good-for-nothing pauper, who'm you ought rather to send to the workhouse than maintain at your own expense, did I! I advised you to take him as an apprentice; and, so far from getting the regular fee with him, to give him a salary? I advised you to feed him, and clothe him, and treat him like his betters; to put up with his insolence, and wink at his faults? I counselled all this, I suppose. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. He was not used to not getting his way. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. A riding-habit is all I have seen. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty.
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