Thursday was the day for making the butter, and one Thursday in the beginning of June of the year I am , I walked along the flag-stones of the court-yard towards the dairy, that stood somewhat detached from the house. I hummed softly to myself as I went; I was happy. I could not have told why I was happy—for Joyce was away, and I should have been lonely. But the June was fair and pleasant, and I was young and strong.  
Mother had a special pride in her dairy. The broad, low pans stood in their order on the dressers along the white-tiled walls, each of the four "meals" in its place; the household cream set apart, and other clean pans ready for the fresh setting. The warm summer breeze came through the trellised , that let the air in day and night, and through the open door, around which the midsummer roses clustered thickly and the honeysuckle twined its sweet tendrils.
 
Beyond the door one could see the square of grass-plot, with the wide border running round it, in which old-fashioned flowers stood up against the brick wall; and over the wall one could see just a little strip of and sea in the distance. Mother had not come in yet; but Reuben had churned before daybreak, and now Deborah stood lifting the butter out of the churn ready for the washing and pressing.
 
"Have you seen Reuben anywheres about?" said she, sharply, as I came in.
 
I knew by her voice that she was annoyed.
 
"Yes," said I; "I've just left him. Do you want him?"
 
"I want a few fagots for my kitchen fire; but nowadays there's no getting no one to do nothing," answered she. "Reuben was never much for brains, but he used to be handy; but now—if there's nothing, there's always something for Reuben to do."
 
"Dear me! How's that?" asked I.
 
Deborah was silent. She had said already far more than was her —for Deborah was not one to talk, and generally kept her to herself.
 
"The butter'll want a deal o' pressing and washing this morning," said she. "The weather's sultry, and it hasn't come clean."
 
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I was turning up my sleeves. "Dear me! Then it'll take a long time?" said I. I hated washing the butter; it was dull work.
 
"Sure enough it will," laughed Deborah, grimly. "What do you want to be doing? You haven't half the heart in the work that your sister has!"
 
"Ah no," I agreed. "I'm not so clever at it as Joyce is."
 
"You can be clever enough when you choose," said the old woman, . "I dare say you could be clever enough teaching this Mr. Harrod his way about the farm if you were wanted to."
 
I looked up quickly. I think I blushed. Why did Deb say that? But why should I blush because she had said it?
 
"Indeed, I shouldn't think of trying to teach Mr. Harrod anything," said I, trying to laugh.
 
"What! Has he turned out sharp enough to please you after all?" asked she, with that snort which it was her fashion to give when she wanted to be disagreeable. "I thought you were of a mind that nobody could be clever enough over this precious farm, unless you was to show them how."
 
"Fiddlesticks!" said I.
 
It was very annoying of Deborah to want to put me in a bad temper when I had come in in such a good one.
 
"Have you seen your father?" asked she, presently.
 
"No," replied I. "Does he want me?"
 
"He was asking for you. Wanted you to go up and show this young chap the field where he wants the put."
 
The bailiff again. What was the matter with Deborah, that she could not leave me and him alone?
 
"Mr. Harrod knows his way about the country quite well enough by this time to find it for himself," I said.
 
I did not look at Deborah, but I knew very well that her face wore a kind of expression of with which I was familiar.
 
"I'm sorry you're still set again the poor young man," said she, provokingly.
 
But there was a very different ring in her voice when she again in a few minutes, and when I looked up I saw that an unwonted gentleness had overspread her hard, rough features.
 
"If you haven't seen your father since breakfast," she added, "maybe you don't know as he's had another o' them queer starts at his heart."
 
"No. What kind of thing?" asked I, frightened.
 
"Oh, you know; same as he had in the winter, only not so bad.[138] There, you needn't be terrified," added she; "it's nothing bad much—only lasted a minute or two. He called and asked me for a glass of water, and I fetched the missis. He was better afore she came. But it's my belief he's neither so young nor so well as he was."
 
This was evident; but neither Deb nor I saw the joke—we were too serious.
 
"And it's my belief he's over something, Margaret," added she, gravely. "So if this here new chap saves him any bother, I suppose folk should need be pleased."
 
I wondered whether Deborah meant this as an excuse for my being pleased, or as a for my not being pleased. I think now that she meant it as neither, but rather as a rebuke to herself. I took it to heart, however, and the tears rushed to my eyes.
 
Had I been really anxious to save father all possible worry over this innovation? Had I done all I could to help Mr. Harrod settle down in his place? I was not sure. I thought I would do more, and yet I thought I would not do more. Oh, Margaret, Margaret! were you quite honest with yourself at that time? I took up a fresh lump of butter and began washing it blindly.
 
"Come, come, you're not going the right way about it! You'll never get the milk out that way!" cried Deborah, coming up to me.
 
"No, no—I know," answered I, impatiently; and then, incoherently, "but, oh dear me! what is the right way?"
 
Deborah laughed, but gently enough. She was a clever old woman, and she knew that I was not to the butter.
 
"Well, I don't rightly know myself," said she, without looking at me. "What you thinks the right way, most times turns out to be the wrong way; and when you make folk turn to the right when they was minded to turn to the left, it's most like the left would ha' been the best way for them to travel after all. I've done advisin' long ago; for it's a queer of country here below, and every one has to take their own chance in the long-run."
 
This speech of Deb's had given me time to choke down my ridiculous tears and put on my usual face again; for I should indeed have been ashamed to be caught crying when there was nothing in the world to cry about; and just as she finished speaking, mother's figure came past the window, walking slowly, Broderick at her side.
 
"Oh dear me! whatever does squire want at this time o' day?" cried I, impatiently. "He shouldn't need to come so often, now Joyce is away."
 
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Deborah looked at me warningly. The latticed shutters, although they looked closed, let in every sound; and indeed I don't know what me to make the speech, for I had no dislike to the squire. I suppose I was still a little .
 
"You might keep a civil tongue in your head?" Deborah, angrily.
 
The squire was, I have said, a great favorite with the old woman, who was, so to speak, on the Tory side of the camp, although she would have been puzzled to explain the meaning of the word.
 
Mother was talking to the squire in her most doleful voice—a voice that she could produce at times, although she was certainly not by nature a doleful woman.
 
"It has upset me very much," she was saying, and I knew she was alluding to father's indisposition. "He says it is only rheumatics, and I hope it is; but it makes me uneasy. He's not the man he was, and I can't help fancying at times that he has something on his mind that worries him."
 
The very same words that Deborah had used; but what father should have to worry him I could not see.
 
"He gives too much thought to these high-flown notions of his, Mrs. Maliphant, that's what it is," answered the squire, . "It's enough to turn any man's brain."
 
"Oh, I don't think it's that. I think it cheers him up to think of the of the working-classes," declared mother, simply, without any notion of the contradiction of her speech. "I'm sure he's quite happy when he gets a letter from your nephew about the meetings over this children's institution. It's a notion of his own, you see, and he's pleased with it, as we all are with what we have fancied out. Not but what I do say it is a beautiful notion," added mother, loyally. "I pity the poor little things myself; no one more."
 
This was true. It was the only one of father's "wild notions" that mother had any touch of.
 
I noticed that the squire had frowned at the mention of Frank's name. He always did; I thought I knew why.
 
"Yes; that's all very fine, ma'am," he said, "but the trouble is that it won't make his crops grow. No; and paying his half as much again as anybody else won't make his farm pay."
 
Mother looked at the squire anxiously.
 
"Do you think the farm doesn't pay?" asked she. "Do you suppose it's that as is making Laban fidgety?"
 
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"How should I know, my dear lady?" answered the squire, in the same way—he was very irritable this morning—"Maliphant knows his own affairs."
 
Mother was silent.
 
"Well, I hope this young fellow is going to do a deal o' good to the farm, and to my husband too," added she, cheerfully. "I look to a great deal from him, and I can't be grateful enough to you, Squire Broderick, for having settled the matter for us. He's a plain-speaking, sensible young man, and I like him very much."
 
"Yes, Harrod is a thorough good-fellow," answered the squire, warmly. "He is plain-speaking, too much so to his elders sometimes; but it's because he has got his whole heart in his work. He cares for nothing else, and you can't say that of every man that works for another man's money."
 
They had stopped outside the window, and had stood still there, talking all this while. I suppose mother forgot that Deb and I were bound to be inside doing our business, and that the lattice was open.
 
"I like him very much," continued she; "but I don't think Laban fancies him much, nor yet Margaret. Margaret set her face against his coming from the first, you see. It was natural, I dare say. She had been used to do a good bit for her father; and when Margaret sets her face against anything—well, you can't lead her, it's driving then. It's just the same when she wants a thing. You may drive and drive, but you won't drive her away from that spot. It's very hard to know how to manage a nature like that, Mr. Broderick, especially when you've been used to a girl that's as gentle as Joyce is. But there, they both have their goods and their ills. Far be it from their mother to deny that."
 
Squire Broderick laughed, and then mother laughed too, and they both came forward round the corner and in at the door. Mother started a little when she saw me, and the squire smiled . But I did not smile; I was boiling over with anger.
 
"Why, Deborah, you have set to work early," said mother, without looking at me. "Why didn't you call me?"
 
"I didn't know as there was any need to call," answered Deborah, roughly, and I believe in my heart that she was the more rough because she didn't like mother's speech about me. "You've your work to do, ma'am,............