"Mary, my dear, when you have done out there, will you come in and reason--if you can--with Miss Wood.
She vows that she is going to London, all alone." "Oh, Major Hockin--oh, Nicholas dear, such a thing has happened!" Mrs.
Hockin had scarcely any breath to tell us, as she came in through the window.

"You know that they have only had three bushels, or, at any rate, not more than five, almost ever since they came.

Erema, you know as well as I do." "Seven and three-quarter bushels of barley, at five and ninepence a bushel, Mary," said the Major, pulling out a pocket-book; "besides Indian corn, chopped meat, and potatoes." "And fourteen pounds of paddy," I said--which was a paltry thing of me; "not to mention a cake of graves, three sacks of brewers' grains, and then--I forget what next." "You are too bad, all of you.

Erema, I never thought you would turn against me so.

And you made me get nearly all of it.