Grassmere.

"Have you nothing else to say to me?" asked Meadows, as the farmer put
his foot in the stirrup.

"Not that I know of," replied the other, and cantered away.

"Confound him!" muttered Meadows; "he comes and stops here three
hours, drinks my ale, gets my knowledge without the trouble of digging
for't, and goes away, and not a word from Susan, or even a word about
her--one word would have paid me for all this loss of time--but no, I
was not to have it. I will be in Devonshire this time to-morrow--no,
to-morrow is market day--but the day after I will go. I cannot live
here and not see her, nor speak to her--'twill drive me mad."

The next morning, as Meadows mounted his horse to ride to market, a
carter's boy came up to him, and taking off his hat and pulling his
head down by the front lock by way of salute, put a note into his
hand. Meadows took it and opened it carelessly; it was a handwriting
he did not know. But his eye had no sooner glanced at the signature
than his eyes gleamed and his whole frame trembled with emotion he
could hardly hide. This was the letter:


"DEAR MR. MEADOWS--We have not seen you here a long time, and if you
could take a cup of tea with us on your way home from market, my
father would be glad to see you, if it is not troubling you too much.

"I believe he has some calves he wishes to show you.