He took it in to Mrs. Braham, and read it to her, and gave it her.  He meant it all as a joke; he read it with a sneer.  But the mother’s heart over-flowed.  She put it in her bosom, and kissed his hand.

“Oh, Leonard,” said she, “God bless you!  Now I see you mean no ill to me and mine. You don’t love me enough to be angry with me.  But it all comes back to me.  A woman can’t forget her first.  Now promise me one thing; don’t give way to revenge or avarice.  You are so wise when you are cool, but no man can give way to his passions and be wise.  Why run any more risks?  He is liberal to me, and I’m not extravagant.  I can allow you more than I said, and wrong nobody.”

Monckton interrupted her, thus:  “There, old girl, you are a good sort; you always were.  But not bleed that skunk Bartley, and not be revenged on that villain Hope?  I’d rather die where I stand, for they have turned my blood to gall, and lighted hell in my heart this many a year of misery.”

He held out his hand to her; it was cold.  She grasped it in her warm, soft palm, and gave him one strange, searching look with her glorious eyes; and so they parted.

Next day, at dusk, there arrived at the Dun Cow an elderly man with a large carpet-bag and a strapped bundle of patterns—­tweed, kersey, velveteen, and corduroys.  He had a short gray mustache and beard, very neat; and appeared to be a commercial traveller.

In the evening he asked for brandy, old rum, lemons, powdered sugar, a kettle, and a punch-bowl.  A huge one, relic of a past age, was produced.  He mixed delicious punch, and begged the landlady to sit down and taste it.  She complied, and pronounced it first-rate.  He enticed her into conversation.

She was a rattling gossip, and told him first her own grievances.  Here was the village enlarging, and yet no more custom coming to her because of the beer-house.  The very mention of this obnoxious institution moved her bile directly.  “A pretty gentleman,” said she, “to brew his own beer and undersell a poor widow that have been here all her days and her father before her!  But the Colonel won’t let me be driven out altogether, no more will Mr. Walter:  he do manage for the old gentleman now.”

Monckton sipped and waited for the name of Hope, but it did not come.  The good lady deluged him with the things that interested her.  She was to have a bit of a farm added on to the Dun Cow.  It was to be grass land, and not much labor wanted.  She couldn’t undertake that; was it likely?  But for milking of cows and making butter or cheese, that she was as good at as here and there one; and if she could have the custom of the miners for her milk.  “But, la, sir,” said she, “I’ll go bail as that there Bartley will take and set up a dairy against me, as he have a beer shop.”

“Bartley?” said Monckton, inquiringly.

“Ay, sir; him as owns the mine, and the beer shop, and all, worse luck for me.”