He muttered, "One more down to your account, George Fielding," and
left the young man watching Isaac's retreating form.

George, who didn't know he was gone, said:

"Old man's words seem to knock against my bosom, Mr. Meadows--Gone,
eh?--that man," thought George Fielding, "has everybody's good word,
parson's and all--who'd think he'd lift his hand, leastways his stick
it was and that's worse, against a man of three score and
upward--Ugh!" thought George Fielding, yeoman of the midland
counties--and unaffected wonder mingled with his disgust.

His reverie was broken by William Fielding just ridden in from
Farnborough.

"Better late than never," said the elder brother, impatiently.

"Couldn't get away sooner, George; here's the money for the sheep, 13
pounds 10s.; no offer for the cow, Jem is driving her home."

"Well, but the money--the 80 pounds, Will?"

William looked sulkily down.

"I haven't got it, George! There's your draft again, the bank wouldn't
take it."

A keen pang shot across George's face, as much for the affront as the
disappointment.