Friarswood Post Office. Yonge Charlotte Mary

want her to come and see me any more!’

      Poor Alfred!  There was a little twinge here.  His conscience could not give quite such an account as did that of Job!  But he did not like recollecting his own errors better than any of us do, and liked much more to feel himself very hardly used, and greatly to be pitied.  Thereupon he opened his lips to call to his mother, but that old thought about patience returned on him; he had mercy on her regular breathing, though it made him quite envious to hear it, and he said to himself that he would let her alone, at least till the next time the clock struck.  It would be three o’clock next time.  Oh dear, would the night never be over?  How often such a round of weary thoughts came again and again can hardly be counted; but, at any rate, poor Alfred was exercising one act of forbearance, and that was so much gain.  At last he found, by the increasing light shewing him the shapes of all the pictures, that he must have had a short sleep which had made him miss the clock, and he felt a good deal injured thereby.

      However, Mrs. King was too good a nurse not to be awakened by his first movement, and she came to him, gave him some cold tea, and settled his pillow so as to make him more comfortable; and when he begged her to let in a little more air, she went to open the window wider, and relieve the closeness of the little room.  She had learnt while living with Lady Jane that night air is not so dangerous as some people fancy; and it was an infinite relief to Alfred when the lattice was thrown back, and the cool breeze came softly in, with the freshness of the dew, and the delicious scent of the hay-field.

      Mrs. King stood a moment to look out at the beautiful stillness of early dawn, the trees and meads so gravely calmly quiet, and the silver dew lying white over everything; the tanned hay-cocks rising up all over the field, the morning star and waning moon glowing pale as light of morning spread over the sky.  Then a cock crew somewhere at a distance, and Mrs. Shepherd’s cock answered him more shrilly close by, and the swallows began to twitter under the eaves.

      ‘It will be a fine day, to be sure!’ she said.  ‘The farmer will get in his hay!’ and then she stood looking as if something had caught her attention.

      ‘What do you see, Mother?’ asked Alfred.

      ‘I was looking what that was under yon hay-cock,’ said Mrs. King; ‘and I do believe it is some one sleeping there.’

      ‘Ha!’ cried Alfred.  ‘I dare say it is the boy that would not have Miss Jane’s sixpence.’

      ‘I’m sure I hope he’s after no harm,’ said Mrs. King; ‘I don’t like to have tramps about so near.  I hope he means no mischief by the farmer’s poultry.’

      ‘He can’t be one of that sort, or he wouldn’t have refused the money,’ said Alfred.  ‘How nice and cool it must be sleeping in the hay!  I’ll warrant he doesn’t lie awake.  I wish I was there!’

      ‘You’ll know what to be thankful for one of these days, my poor lad,’ said his mother, sighing; then yawning, she said, ‘I must go back to bed.  Mind you call out, Alfred, if you hear anything like a noise in the farm-yard.’

      This notion rather interested Alfred; he began to build up a fine scheme of shouting out and sending Harold to the rescue of the cocks and hens, and how well he would have done it himself a year ago, and pinned the thief, and fastened the door on him.  Not that he thought this individual lad at all likely to be a thief, nor did he care much for Farmer Shepherd, who was a hard man and no favourite; but to catch a thief would be a grand feat.  And while settling his clever plan, and making some compliments for the magistrate to pay him, Alfred, fanned by the cool breeze, fell into a sound sleep, and did not wake till the sun was high, and all the rest of the house were up and dressed.

      That good sleep made him much more able to bear the burden of the day.  First, his mother came with the towel and basin, and washed his face and hands; and then he had his little book, and said his prayers; and somehow to-day he felt so much less fractious than usual, that he asked to be taught patience, and not only to be made well, as he had hitherto done.

      That over, he lay smiling as he waited for his breakfast, and when Ellen brought it to him, he had not one complaint to make, but ate it almost with a relish.  ‘Is that boy gone?’ he asked Ellen, as she tidied the room while he was eating.

      ‘What, the dirty boy?  No, there he is, speaking to the farmer.  Will he beg of him?’

      ‘Asking for work, more likely.’

      ‘I’d sooner give work to a pig at once,’ said Ellen; ‘but I do believe he’s getting it.  I fancy they are short of hands for the hay.  Yes, he’s pointing into the field.  Ay, and he’s sending him into the yard.’

      ‘I hope he’ll give him some breakfast,’ said Alfred.  ‘Do you know he slept all night on a hay-cock?’

      ‘Yes, so Mother said, just like a dog; and he got up like a dog this morning,—never so much as washed himself at the river.  Why, he’s coming here!  Whatever does he want?’

      ‘The lad?’

      ‘No, the farmer.’

      Mr. Shepherd’s heavy tread was heard below, and, as Alfred said, Ellen had only to hold her tongue for them be able to hear his loud tones telling Mrs. King that the glass was falling, and his hay in capital order, and his hands short, and asking whether her boy Harold would come and help in the hay-field between the post times.  Mrs. King gave a ready answer that the boy would be well pleased, and the farmer promised him his victuals and sixpence for the day.  ‘Your lass wouldn’t like to come too, I suppose, eh?’

      Ellen flushed with indignation.  She go a hay-making!  Her mother was civilly making answer that her daughter was engaged with her sick brother, and besides—had her work for Mrs. Price, which must be finished off.  The farmer, saying he had not much expected her, but thought she might like a change from moping over her needle, went off.

      Ellen did not feel ready to forgive him for wanting to set her to field-work.  There is some difference between being fine and being refined, and in Ellen’s station of life it is very difficult to hit the right point.  To be refined is to be free from all that is rough, coarse, or ungentle; to be fine, is to affect to be above such things.  Now Ellen was really refined in her quietness and maidenly modesty, and there was no need for her to undertake any of those kinds of tasks which, by removing young girls from home shelter, do sometimes help to make them rude and indecorous; but she was fine, when she gave herself a little mincing air of contempt, as if she despised the work and those who did it.  Lydia Grant, who worked so steadily and kept to herself so modestly, that no one ventured a bold word to her as she tossed her hay, was just as refined as Ellen King behind her white blinds, ay, or as Jane Selby herself in her terraced garden.  Refinement is in the mind that loves whatsoever is pure, lovely, and of good report; finery is in disdaining what is homely or humble.

      Boys of all degrees are usually, when they are good for anything, the greatest enemies of the finery tending to affectation; and Alfred at once began to make a little fun of his sister, and tell her it would be a famous thing for her, he believed she had quite forgotten how to run, and did not know a rake from a fork when she saw it.  He knew she was longing for a ride in the waggon, if she would but own it.

      Ellen used to be teased by this kind of joking; but she was too glad to see Alfred well enough so to entertain himself, to think of anything but pleasing him, so she answered good-humouredly that Harold must make hay for them all three to-day, no doubt but he would be pleased enough.

      He was heard trotting home at this moment, and whistling as he hitched up the pony at the gate, and ran in with the letter-bag, to snap up his breakfast while the letters were sorted.

      ‘Here, let me have them,’ called Alfred, and they were glad he should do it, for he was the quickest of the family at reading handwriting; but he was often too ill to attend to it, and more often the weary fretfulness and languor of his state made him dislike to exert himself, so it was apt to depend on his will or caprice.

      ‘Look sharp, Alf!’ hallooed out Harold, rushing up-stairs with the bags in one hand, and his bread-and-butter in the other.  ‘If you find a letter for that there Ragglesford, I don’t know