It was a very miserable breakfast at the farm the next morning, for old Bultitude was looking very black and angry, and it was quite evident that poor little Jessie had been in tears.

“What time did that scoundrel go out?” said the farmer, stabbing a piece of ham savagely with his fork, and after cutting a piece off as if it were a slice off an enemy, he knocked out the brains of an egg with a heavy dash of his tea-spoon.

“Don’t call him a scoundrel, uncle dear,” sobbed Jessie.  “I don’t know.”

“I will, I tell ’ee,” cried the old man furiously.  “I won’t hev him hanging about here any longer, a lungeing villain.  Leaving his wuck and going off, and niver coming back all neet.  Look thee here, Jess; if thee thinks any more about that lad, I’ll send thee away.”

“No, no, uncle dear, don’t say that,” cried the girl, going up and clinging to him.  “He may have been taken ill, or a dozen things may have happened.”

“O’ coorse.  Theer, I niver see such fools as girls are; the bigger blackguard a man is, the more the women tak’s his part.  Sit thee down, bairn; theer, I aint cross wi’ you; I on’y want to do what’s best for you, for I wean’t see thee wed to a shack.”

He kissed poor Jessie affectionately, and bade her “make a good breakfast,” but the poor girl could not touch a morsel.

“Hillo! who’s this?” said the farmer, a few minutes later.  “Oh, it’s young Brough.  Come in, lad, come in.”

“Hooray, farmer!” he cried, all eagerness and delight.  “I telled you so ­I telled you so, and you wouldn’t believe it, and Miss Jessie theer turned like a wood cat, and was ready to scrat my eyes out.”

Jessie’s colour came and went as her little bosom heaved, and she turned her chair so as to avoid the keeper’s gaze.

“What did’st tell me?” said the farmer gruffly.

“Why, that John Maine was out ivery night skulking ’bout the vicarage whiles he should ha’ been at home i’ bed like an honest man.  And I telled ye he was in co. wi’ a couple o’ poachers and thieves over here fro’ one o’ the big towns; and I telled you he weer nobbut a tramp hissen.”

“How dare you speak of him like that?” cried Jessie, starting up with flashing eyes, and stamping her foot.  “You wouldn’t dare to speak so to John Maine’s face, for fear he should beat you.”

“Hoity, toity!” exclaimed the farmer.  “Who told thee to speak, lass?  Let the man finish.”

“I will not sit here and listen to such talk,” cried Jessie, angrily, and with an energy which plainly told her feelings towards the missing man.  “Let him wait till John comes.”

“That wean’t niver be,” said the keeper, with a grin of satisfaction.  “Because why?  Just as I towd thee, farmer, there weer a robbery at the vicarage last night.”

“No!” cried old Bultitude, starting up with his mouth full.

“Ay, mun, but there weer,” cried Brough, in an exulting tone.  “Just as I said theer’d be, all plotted and planned out to get parson’s silver cups and toots ­all plotted and planned out by John Maine and his blackguard mates.  Thank your stars, and you too, Miss Jessie, as you haven’t both been robbed and murdered.”

“I wean’t believe it,” cried the old farmer, angrily.  “John Maine’s got a bit wrong somehow, but he isn’t the lad to rob nowt.  He’s raight to a penny always wi’ his accounts.”

“That’s his artfulness,” sneered Brough.

“Yah!” cried the farmer.  “You’ve got hold of a cock and bull story up town, wheer they’ll turn a slip on the causay into fower fatal accidents ’fore the news has got from the top of the High Street to the bottom.”

As he spoke Jessie crossed over to her uncle, laid her hands upon his shoulder, and stood with her eyes flashing indignant protest against the accuser of her lover.

“Hev it your own waya,” said Brough, quietly.  “I were up at ’station, when parson comes in hissen, and tell’d Bowley that the party on ’em broke in at the vicarage last night, ’bout half-past twelve, and that he’d fote the men, and got ’em locked up, and John Maine wi’ ’em.  Them’s parson’s own words; and if parson’s words arn’t true, dal it all, who’s is?”

“I’ll never, never believe it,” cried Jessie, with an angry burst of indignation; and then, bursting into tears, she ran out of the room, sobbing bitterly.

“Poor little lass!” said old Bultitude, softly; “she thinks a deal more o’ John Maine than she does o’ thee, my lad.  But look here:  I believe i’ John Maine after all, and shall go on believing in him, though I am a bit popped agen him, till I sees him foun’ guilty.  Yow set me watching the lad one night, you know, Brough, and it all turned out a bam, for there he weer, safe in his bed.  Just you let things bide till we know more ’bout ’em; and I don’t thank ye, young man, for coming and spoiling my brackfast.”

“Just as yow like, Master Bultitude,” said the keeper, sourly; “but just answer me one question, Weer John Maine at home all last night?”

“No,” said the farmer, savagely, “and he aint been back yet; but that don’t prove he weer lungeing ’bout parson’s.  How do I know he wasn’t at Bosthorpe Dancing?”

“Bostrop Dancing weer day afore yesterday,” said the keeper, grinning as he made this retort about the village feast.  “Oh, here comes parson.”

“Morning, Mr Bultitude,” said the vicar, coming in, looking rather grave.  “Ah, Miss Jessie, how are you?” he continued, as, on hearing his voice, the girl stole back into the room.  “Nice neighbours you are, to lie snug in bed and let your poor vicar be robbed, and murdered, and carried off in a cart.”

Jessie sank into a chair, looking as white as ashes, while Brough rubbed his hands joyously.

“Then it is all true?” said the farmer slowly.

“True?  Oh, yes, true enough,” said the vicar.  “I got the scoundrels safely locked up in the cellar.”

“Howd up, my lass, howd up,” whispered the farmer, kindly, as he laid his hand on Jessie’s shoulder; “be a woman and let’s hear the worst.”  Then to the vicar:  “An’ was John Maine wi’ ’em, sir?”

“Oh yes, he was with them,” said the vicar, wondering.

“Theer, I telled you so,” cried Brough exultantly, “I know’d how he’d turn out.”

The vicar smiled slightly at this, as he noticed the malice of the man, and he repeated slowly ­

“Yes, John Maine was there.”

The last trace of colour faded out of Jessie’s cheeks, and a dull look of stony despair came over her countenance, while the old farmer shifted his position and began to dig a fork savagely into the deal table.

“Dal me ­” began the old man, but he stopped short.

“Just as I telled thee,” said Brough, eagerly.

“Dal thee! don’t set thee clapper going at me,” roared the old man.  “I know it, don’t I?”

“Yes,” said the vicar, smiling, as he took and patted Jessie’s hand; “John Maine was there, and a braver ally I never had.”

“What?” roared the farmer.

“After watching my house, and setting young Podmore to watch it,” said the vicar, “he came and warned me about his suspicions, and ­”

“Dal me!” cried old Bultitude, “you kep’ him there all night, parson, to help you?”

“I did,” said the vicar.

“And took the rascals?”

“Yes, with John Maine’s help.”

“It’s a-maazing,” said the old man, slapping his thigh, and bursting into a tremendous series of chuckles.  “Oh, parson, you are a one-er, and no mistake.”

The vicar was conscious of two looks as Jessie ran from the room ­one of black indignation, directed at Brough; the other a soft, tender glance of thankfulness at himself, ere the poor girl once more ran up into her own room to “have a good cry.”

“Let me see,” said old Bultitude, dryly; “I don’t think theer was owt else as you wanted to tell me, was theer, Master Brough?”

“Not as I knows on, farmer,” said the keeper, looking from one to the other.

“Because, being churchwarden, theer’s a thing or two I want to talk ower wi’ parson ­calling a meeting for next week, like.”

“Oh, I can go,” said the keeper, in an offended tone ­“I can go if it comes to that;” and then, as no one paid any attention to him, he strode out, his departure being made plain by a loud yelping noise outside, and the voice of one of the labourers being heard to exclaim ­

“I shouldn’t ha’ thowt yow’d kick a dog like that, Master Brough.”

While the vicar sat down and told the adventures of the past night.