that a friend's voice would do you good. Come, cheer up, my man!" and
Vivian dared to touch him. His hand was not repulsed. "Do you remember
what good service you did me when I rode white-footed Moll? Why, I was
much worse off then than you are now: and yet, you see, a friend came
and saved me. You must not give way so, my good fellow. After all, a
little management will set everything right," and he took the
husbandman's sturdy hand.

"I do remember you," he faintly cried. "You were always very kind."

"And always will be, John; always to friends like you. Come, come, cheer
up and look about you, and let the sunbeam enter your cottage:" and
Vivian beckoned to the wife to open the closed shutter.

Conyers stared around him, but his eye rested only on bare walls, and
the big tear coursed down his hardy cheek.

"Nay, never mind, man," said Vivian, "we will soon have chairs and
tables again. And as for the rent, think no more about that at present."

The husbandman looked up, and then burst into weeping. Vivian could
scarcely hold down his convulsed frame on the rugged seat; but the wife
advanced from the back of the room, and her husband's head rested
against her bosom. Vivian held his honest hand, and the eldest girl rose
unbidden from her silent sorrow, and clung to her father's knee.

"The fit is over," whispered the wife. "There, there, there's a man, all
is now well;" and Vivian left him resting on his wife's bosom.

"Here, you curly-headed rascal, scamper down to the village immediately,