"Because I can't afford to take it. It's as much, as I shall be able
to do to get you enough to eat and wear this year."

Mr. Ashburn's manner was decided, and his voice had a repelling
tone.

Margaret and Phœbe could say no more; but they did not leave their
father's presence without giving his eyes the benefit of seeing a
free gush of tears. It would be doing injustice to Mr. Ashburn's
state of mind to say that he felt very comfortable, or had done so,
since stopping the "Post," an act for which he had sundry times more
than half repented. But, as it had been done, he could not think of
recalling it.

Very sober were the faces that surrounded the supper-table that
evening; and but few words were spoken. Mr. Ashburn felt oppressed,
and also fretted to think that his daughters should make both
themselves and him unhappy about the trifle of a newspaper, when he
had such serious troubles to bear.

On the next Saturday, as Mr. Ashburn was walking over his farm, he
saw a man sitting on one of his fences, dressed in a jockey-cap, and
wearing a short hunting-coat. He had a rifle over his shoulder, and
carried a powder-flask, shot and bird bags. In fact, he was a fully
equipped sportsman, a somewhat _rara avis_ in those parts.

"What's this lazy fellow doing here?" said Ashburn, to himself. "I
wonder where he comes from?"