The bailiff was in very high spirits this first morning of the new
year--almost uproarious spirits indeed, which vented themselves in
snatches of boisterous song, as he bustled backwards and forwards from
house to stables, dressed in his best blue coat and bright buttons and a
capacious buff waistcoat; with his ponderous nether limbs clothed in
knee-cords, and boots with vinegar tops; looking altogether the typical
British farmer.
Those riotous bursts of song made his daughter shudder. Somehow, his
gaiety was more alarming to her than his customary morose humour. It was
all the more singular, too, because of late William Carley had been
especially silent and moody, with the air of a man whose mind is weighed
down by some heavy burden--so gloomy indeed, that his daughter had
questioned him more than once, entreating to know if he were distressed
by any secret trouble, anything going wrong about the farm, and so on.
The girl had only brought upon herself harsh angry answers by these
considerate inquiries, and had been told to mind her own business, and
not pry into matters that in no way concerned her.
"But it does concern me to see you downhearted, father," she answered
gently.
"Does it really, my girl? What! your father's something more than a
stranger to you, is he? I shouldn't have thought it, seeing how you've
gone again me in some things lately.
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