O, if it were to do that,' she murmured, burying her face in her hands, 'I really think it would be more than I could bear!' 'Very well,' said Mrs.Goodman; 'we will see what can be done.

I will write to Mr.Wardlaw.' IV.
On a windy afternoon in November, when more than two months had closed over the incidents previously recorded, a number of farmers were sitting in a room of the Lord-Quantock-Arms Inn, Markton, that was used for the weekly ordinary.

It was a long, low apartment, formed by the union of two or three smaller rooms, with a bow-window looking upon the street, and at the present moment was pervaded by a blue fog from tobacco-pipes, and a temperature like that of a kiln.

The body of farmers who still sat on there was greater than usual, owing to the cold air without, the tables having been cleared of dinner for some time and their surface stamped with liquid circles by the feet of the numerous glasses.
Besides the farmers there were present several professional men of the town, who found it desirable to dine here on market-days for the opportunity it afforded them of increasing their practice among the agriculturists, many of whom were men of large balances, even luxurious livers, who drove to market in elegant phaetons drawn by horses of supreme blood, bone, and action, in a style never anticipated by their fathers when jogging thither in light carts, or afoot with a butter basket on each arm.
The buzz of groggy conversation was suddenly impinged on by the notes of a peal of bells from the tower hard by.

Almost at the same instant the door of the room opened, and there entered the landlord of the little inn at Sleeping-Green.