some o' the lads fro' Branston 'ull be havin' bets-" Lyddy threw out her hand solemnly. "Ye mustn't let 'em bet," she observed. "Bettin's wicked, anyhow, so ye did ought to be glad to stop that. Now, Jim," she added in a wheedling tone, "do 'ee make up your mind to do what I say. I'll love ye for it—jist about!" "Ye said ye'd hate me if I didn't," grumbled Jim; "'tis a funny sort o' love what can chop an' change like that." "I said I mid be forced to hate ye," she said, correcting him. "If ye was to do my father a mischief, of course I'd have to hate ye. But I don't wish to do it-I'd like to love ye." She said this with such a pleading glance of the blue eyes that were usually more keen than soft, and with such a bewitching dimpling of her pretty face, that her lover was vanquished. "Well, if that's the case, I must try to give 'ee your wish," he rejoined. "But you must reward me, Lyddy. You must give me your promise outright, an' no more shilly-shally, no matter what your father says." "Oh, I'll agree to that," cried the delighted girl. "An' I shouldn't wonder but what father'd be so set up over the prize that he'd be in a good humor with you so well as everyone else." "Others mid beat en though," suggested Jim. "Him an' me bain't the only ones. Sol Young and Bob Marshall an' a good many other chaps is goin' in for the match too-an' your father's but a wold man." "No, no," said Lyddy, shaking her head emphatically. "Father mid be wold, but he be terr'ble clever, an' when he do set his mind to a thing, he do never let hisself be. beat. There is but you to be afeard on." To Jim's surprise he found that this view was shared by most of the vil lagers. The elders who had witnessed Robert Inkpen's prowess in former days pinned their faith to him still, and though the younger members of the community rallied round Jim, and loudly announced their belief that he would carry the day, so universal was the traditional belief in the power of the old champion, that even these took it for granted he would distance all rivals except his would-be son-in-law. "But I'll back you, Jim," cried Tom Meadway, slapping young Fry heartily on the back. "I'll bet any man half-acrown as you'll beat old Inkpen out and out." The two were standing at the bar of the Black Horse, and Jim, after a startled glance round, drew his friend cautiously on one side. "Look 'ee here, Tom-don't ye go for to lay any bets on me," he whispered. "I don't want to have no bettin'." Tom stared. "Well I'm dalled!" he exclaimed. "What's that for? I laid two shillin' on ye for the sack race at the Primrose Feet last summer, an' ye was proud to hear on it." "Well, 'tis this way. The maid what I be a-coortin' be reg'lar set again bettin'," Jim explained hastily. "She do think it wicked." And then, remarking that he was in a bit of a hurry, he paid his score and went out, leaving his friend gaping. The eventful Thursday dawned bright and fine; there had been a touch of frost over night, which, though not sufficient to harden the ground, lent crispness and sparkle to the air, and silvered the dewy patches beneath tree and hedgerow; here and there on sunny stretches of the latter little pearly buds of hawthorn spangled the network of young green; opening primroses alternated with the hardier gold of celandine and dandelion; delicate speedwell blooms pushed their way upwards through the rank grass by the wayside, and the satin-flower, elegant, ethereal fine lady of the hedgerow, flaunted its shining petals on every mossy bank. Robert Inkpen's new smock-frock seemed to vie with this last-named blossom in its snowy whiteness. He had, moreover, purchased a new wideawake, and had anticipated his Saturday shave. Mrs. Inkpen broke into open admiration as she walked round him, and Lyddy was conscious of a throb of pride, though her father's triumph could only be compassed by the humiliation of her lover. Robert himself was innocently vain of his appearance, and absolutely confident of the issue of the contest. "I did win my first ploughin'-match in a noo smock-frock what my mother made I," he announced; "I did win my second in a noo smock-frock what you did make I, wold 'ooman, an' likeways my third; an' I be a-goin' to win this here match, what'll be my last, most like, in a noo smock-frock made by my darter Lyddy. Give us a kiss, my maid-there, that's for luck, an' off us goes." Down at the field a crowd had gathered, and the old champion was hailed with loud cheers; poor Jim, who had originally expected this ovation to be for him, stood apart, crestfallen and sulky. "This here'll want a lot o' makin' up for," he murmured in Lyddy's ear; "it will-jist about." Though Mr. Inkpen did not catch the words, he observed that the young couple were walking together, and taking note of the melancholy expression of both faces, instantly inferred that this gloom was caused by the thought of his own impending victory. He nodded at Jim in a friendly way, feeling more kindly towards that young man than he had done for many a day. "Cheer up," he remarked, "there's other prizes besides the prize for the ploughin'-match! Ye can but do your best, an' if ye fail, I dare say our Lyddy 'ull console ye." He passed on, aglow with the sense of his own generosity, and Lyddy's face lit up as she turned to her hitherto unacknowledged sweetheart. "Did ye hear that, Jim?" she cried eagerly. "I heerd," rejoined Jim, without any very great appearance of elation. "Well, he couldn't ha' spoke plainer nor yet kinder," cried the girl sharply. "He mid ha' left that out about me doin' my best," rejoined Jim. "If I was to do my best, I wonder where he'd be so cocksure as he d' seem to feel hisself now!" "Don't you be settin' yourself up then," retorted Lyddy, with increasing acerbity. "I bain't at all sure as father wouldn't get the better of ye anyhow, an' if ye make so little o' me as to think what he did say jist now no comfort, I'm sure I'm sorry I axed the favor of ye." Jim turned towards her with a red and angry face; but at this moment the signal was given for the trials to begin, and he hurried forward to take his place. Old Robert and he, as had been anticipated, held the field between them, and the real interest of the day began when these two, having conquered all other competitors, were pitted against each other. Among the almost breathless spectators, none watched with more eagerness than Lyddy Inkpen. She looked on, indeed, with an anxiety that was almost terror. Jim had not spoken a word to her since her ill-advised taunt; he had not even once glanced in her direction. What if, nettled by what he took to be her ingratitude, and resentng her foolish boast, he should after all go back on his word? The excitement was tumultuous when Robert Inkpen was finally proclaimed for a moment looking down at him over the untrimmed hedge. He could see her face flush between the swaying boughs, and noticed how her hair shone in the sunlight, as with a little toss of the head she turned away. But, though she held herself so loftily and disdained further speech, the sound of a sob which she could not repress fell upon his ear. the winner of the contest. Amid Lyddy drew back quickly, but stood deafening applause he was presented with the prize; men fought for the privilege of carrying him to the Black Horse, where so many friends and admirers stood him treat that, had he not possessed a thoroughly well-seasoned head, he would have come home in an advanced stage of intoxication. As it was, his heart overflowed with kindness towards all mankind, and in particular towards the vanquished Jim. "Where be that spark o' yours?" he inquired in a jovial tone. "Go an' fetch en. I'll ha' summat to say to en now." Lyddy did not need to be told twice -she ran off at full speed to the cottage at the bottom of the hill, where Jim lodged with his spinster aunt. Jim was digging viciously in the little potato-plot at the rear. She called his name softly as she bent over the hedge. "Jim, dear Jim, I've got good noos for 'ee." Jim paused, leaning on the handle of his spade. "Oh, an' have 'ee?" he rejoined sarcastically. "Meanin' about your father winnin' the match? I've heer'd a bit too much o' that a'ready." "Nonsense, how could that be noos to ye? No, it be somethin' specialsummat very particular. There, father d' say he do want to see ye." "Oh, an' does he?" retorted Jim, whose repartees had a certain same ness. "He does, indeed. I d' 'low he be a-goin' to say 'yes.'' "What for?" said Jim, spitting on his hands, and falling to work again with disconcerting unconcern. "Oh, Jim, you know!" "I bain't so sure as I do," answered Jim, shovelling away the earth at a great rate. "I bain't so sure as I do want to see your father." "She'll think I a regular hard-hearted brute," he muttered to himself remorsefully. He drove his spade slowly into the ground, and looked after the departing figure. If it had paused or turned its head, he would have flung away pride and sullenness, and started in pursuit; but Lyddy held on her way unfalteringly, if reluctantly, and presently was lost to sight. 'Tis all up now," groaned Jim, “an” there bain't her like in the parish." Very gloomy and miserable did he remain all that evening, very gloomy and miserable did he arise on the following morning, after a night that would have been sleepless, had it been possible for a healthy young rustic to lie awake for other than bodily pain, and that, at least, was troubled. After partaking silently of the dew-bit which his Aunt Mary dutifully prepared for him, he sallied forth to his work. is The south-country ploughman afoot before dawn, and the horses of which he was in charge were fed and watered by lantern-light. It was still twilight when he led them forth to the shadowy fields, and the plough, which had lain under the hedge since the previous day, seemed a dim and shapeless mass. He harnessed the horses with hands long accustomed to groping in the semi-darkness, but just as the patient beasts started up the furrow the light broke over the copse which crowned the down, and by the time they had twice plodded the length of the great sloping field, the spring day had dawned in full splendor. It was very quiet up there; a hare scurried along the grassy border of the field, its light feet scarcely printing the dewy sod; the rooks, too, were circling overhead, and a solitary blackbird whistled on the still leafless bough of a great ash tree; but there was no human being in sight, and few probably astir in the neighborhood, ploughmen like himself, a shepherd or two, though lambing-time was over, and the womenfolk who ministered to them. It was not yet four o'clock, and even the most energetic village housewife would not consider it necessary to rise for another hour. He was just about to turn at the lower end of the field, when the click of a latch made him look round, and to his astonishment he beheld a man entering the gate at the left-hand corner. A little man, somewhat bent, the morning light catching his white whiskers and his smock-frock-there was only one man in those parts who wore a smock-frock-Robert Inkpen. "Whoa!" called out the latter as he advanced, throwing out his hand at the same time with a detaining gesture. The horses obediently stood still, and Jim, though he still clutched the plough handles, halted, too, staring in amazement at the newcomer. "I do want a word with 'ee afore ye do go up-along," said Robert, in a dull muffled tone. His face was gray and drawn, and he seemed to have aged ten years since the previous day. "Well?" said Jim sulkily. He thought Inkpen had come to upbraid him for his incivility and his apparent slight of Lyddy. "I do want a word with 'ee," repeated Robert slowly. "A strange tale did come to my ears last night, and I do want to get at the truth of it. There, 'tis the talk o' the place as you didn't do your best at the match yes terday-as you an' my darter Lyddy had it made up between ye that ye was to hang back a-purpose an' let me win. Now, I do want 'ee to contradic' thatI can't get any sense fro' Lyddy-she be a bit upset jist now, an' I can't get a straight answer one way or t'other; but I do know myself as the tale can't be true, an' I do want 'ee to contradic' it." Jim's ruddy face had deepend in hue during this speech, and he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "Why in the world can't folks mind their own business?" he cried. "Didn't they see ye win-bain't that enough for 'em?" "Ees, they see'd me win-they see'd me right enough," rejoined Robert, drawing himself up, and endeavoring to assume an appearance of great unconcern, though his sidelong glance at the younger man was anxious enough. "But there's no persuadin' some of 'em that I beat ye fair-they do all say you wasn't anxious for to win." "What makes the fools think that?" growled Jim. "Fools, indeed," repeated Inkpen, with a forced chuckle. "I've a-been the ploughin' champion long before you was barn-it bain't so very likely as I couldn't beat ye. But that there Tom Meadway-'twas him as started the tale; he will have it as you told him not to have any bets on ye." "Well," said Jim, now at bay "so I did. An' I told him, too, the reason why I told en 'twas along o' the maid I was a-coortin' not carin' for bets." "But you be a-coortin' our Lyddy, bain't ye?" inquired Robert. Jim returned no answer. "Of course," resumed the old man, "she wouldn't like to have folks bettin' again her father--I wonder why ye didn't come up to our place last night, Jim?" "No need to talk o' that now," rejoined the other sullenly. "True, true," agreed Robert hastily. "Maybe it wasn't convenient. Well, ye see, I do feel myself very much opset by this here mischeevous gossip. There, yesterday, arter the match, folks couldn't make enough o' me; but when I stepped down two or three hours later to the Black Horse, Tom Meadway had been there afore me, an' that tongue o' his, which be the longest an' the foolishest as ever I knowed, had been a-waggin,' an' they was all atitterin' an' a-nudgin' of each other, an' a-makin' out I were nothin' but a poor old sammy what had been took in an' humored like a child. They did say, one an' all, 'twas my maid's doin'-" "An' what does she say?" growled Jim. "Nothin'-I can't get her to speak out." "Well," rejoined Jim, "I won't say nothin' either." Robert struck his stick sharply on the ground; his face was flushed; head and hand alike shook with anger. "Now look 'ee here, Jim Fry, I be a-goin' to have an end o' this. I bain't a-goin to lay down under sich treatment. You'll jist contradic' this here tale, or else you give up any notion ye may ever ha' had o' gettin' married to our Lyddy. Mind ye, the maid be fond on ye too." Jim's face had been very sullen at the beginning of this onslaught, but at the last sentence it softened; his resolution was perceptibly shaken. "What do you want me to do," he asked in an uncertain tone. "Not so very much," cried Robert eagerly. He pulled up his smock frock and plunged his hand into the depth of his trouser-pocket, producing a small, battered, and much thumbed book. "Now this here be the Testament," he said. "I've a-got a bit o' paper inside" (producing a folded slip from be tween the blackened page). "I did write a few words on it, an' I do want ye first to swear as what I've a-wrote be true, and then to sign your name at the end on't. I've a-brought a pencil, too, look-see." "What be wrote on the paper?" asked Jim huskily. Robert unfolded the document, and, holding it very far from his eyes, read out its contents slowly: "I swear on the Book as I, James Fry, was beat fair by Robert Inkpen at Oakleigh Ploughin' Match, an' that I done my best.' You jist takes the book in your right hand, look-see," he continued, "an' first ye kisses it, an' then ye says-" And here he dictated a peculiar and complicated form of oath, partly reminiscent of a certain episode in his youth when he had been called upon to give testimony in a sheep-stealing case, but supplemented by sundry expressions which he himself considered particularly forcible and binding. "I were that opset last night," he continued, "that I couldn't so much as finish my glass at the Black Horse, an' I were forced to come straight home, an' then when I couldn't get no satisfaction out o' Lyddy I very near went mad. I couldn't rest nohow till I got this paper wrote out, an' settled to start up here wi't first thing to-morn, an' now here I be. Now ye takes the book an' ye kisses it." But Jim resolutely tucked away his hands behind him. In his extremity a mode of escape from the difficulty had presented itself. "I 'on't do no such thing," he cried doggedly. "Why should I turn myself into a laughin'-stock for the parish? They could see for theirselves an' they could judge for theirselves. That be enough. I bain't a-goin' to swear, nor yet to sign no papers. Let 'em think what they do like. Gee back!" The horses, roused from their som |