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 "He is doing garrison duty at Hollow's-mill."

"You left him a sup o' wine, I hope. Bob (turning to Mr. Moore), to keep his courage up?"

He did not pause for an answer, but continued, quickly, still addressing Moore, who had thrown himself into an old-fashioned chair by the fireside,—"Move it, Robert! Get up, my lad! That place is mine. Take the sofa, or three other chairs, if you will, but not this; it belangs to me, and nob'dy else."

"Why are you so particular to that chair, Mr. Yorke?" asked Moore, lazily vacating the place, in obedience to orders.

"My father war afore me, and that's all t' answer I sall gie thee; and it's as good a reason as Mr. Helstone can give for the main feck o' his notions."

"Moore, are you ready to go?" inquired the Rector.

"Nay; Robert's not ready; or rather, I'm not ready to part wi' him: he's an ill lad, and wants correcting."

"Why, sir? What have I done?"

"Made thyself enemies on every hand."

"What do I care for that? What difference does it make to me whether your Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?"

"Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak' of an alien amang us; his father would never have talked i' that way. Go back to Antwerp, where you were born and bred, mauvaise tête!"

"Mauvaise tête vous-même; je ne fais que mon